


Oblivious: Redux

by kiwipixel77



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood and Gore, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Imperial Dragonborn, Racism, Romance, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:53:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9217541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwipixel77/pseuds/kiwipixel77
Summary: The progression of Lydia and her Thane from friends to lovers, set in a series of short stories/one-shots. Imperial DB. Mostly Fluff. Rated M for violence, blood, swearing, and sexual situations. This is the updated version of the original Oblivious.





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello everybody! Thanks for taking a chance on my story! If you're a new reader of Oblivious, welcome! If you're a returning reader, welcome back!**

**So this is an updated, overhauled, completely revised new version of my story Oblivious. I loved this story, and I had so much fun writing it, but I made the mistake of starting it without any real direction or intent. The story was weak, in my opinion, and plotlines popped up, then went cold. I spent so much time between putting chapters out that, inevitably, I hit a wall and Oblivious just sort of... fizzed out.**

**But I return. I said once before I'd see this story through to the end, and I will see it done. And you will too.**

**I have every chapter meticulously laid out and the first half are already completely re-written. Many chapters will be very familiar to my old readers, and others will be nearly completely unrecognisable. I will put them out about once a week, to give myself time to finish the last chapters. I will also leave up the original Oblivious, but I will mark it as _complete._ I will not touch it. I'll let it die in peace.**

**On to the story! Oblivious: Redux follows the story of Lydia and the Dragonborn, and their developing friendship and eventually romance. It is set in a series of short stories/one-shots, some longer than others. Some chapters are arcs in themselves, but most are standalone.**

**Please read and review with any thoughts or criticisms! Every little comment matters and helps me better my writing! I usually respond to every single one, as well, and I'm always open to discussions! Enjoy!**

* * *

As swift and as violent as a crack of lightning or the roar of a dragon, Lydia was torn from sleep by a distant howl piercing the cold starry night.

She was near petrified for a moment – only a moment, though, and she dazedly pulled the furs closer to her chest in some sort of primal self-preservation, her knuckles almost white with the strain. But she could hear the soft crackling of a fire and see its watery light as it flickered through the grimy hide tent walls and into her lumbering consciousness, cutting strange shadows all around her.

She let out a long, tired sigh.

Wolves. _Again._ By the Nine, did she ever _hate_ those beasts. Good for nothing shaggy brutes who stole farmer's goats and had an irksome fondness for Nord meat, it seemed. And an irritating tendency to shriek at all hours deemed ungodly for civilised folk.

Her eyes were puffy from sleeplessness and she should have tried to fall back asleep, but in all honesty she had been having a nightmare of sorts and was silently thankful for the wolf's wail. Of course she would never mention this to anyone. Foolish mutts.

So she lay there for a few moments, listening to the fire, trying to forget what had startled her in her dreams. A dragon, it was. A gigantic black beast, shiny white teeth and beady yellow eyes, unfurling wings darkening the sky. She'd never even seen the thing with her own eyes, but the stories from Helgen – and the lack of survivors – fed the imagination well.

She sighed once more, accepting that sleep was nigh impossible while laying there, and with reluctance she threw the warm furs off her body and slowly, stiffly, rose. Lydia wasn't old by any account but sometimes she felt the years pressing upon every healed scar, every old wound. Her back ached from too many nights sleeping on the ground, and lately from sleeping in her armour. She could not afford the comfort in exchange for a surprise attack in the night. For her Thane's life.

She crawled out of the tent on all fours, steel armour scraping against the barren rock, and she stood up with a stretch, pulling out the tautness and smoothing her aching muscles as she breathed deeply of the fresh cool air. She shivered in the breeze and peered around through heavy eyes.

She and her Thane had been on a mission in the Reach for the Companions the past week, and making their way back to Whiterun had them camped on the grassy hills just west of Rorikstead. Soon they would be back in Whiterun Hold, and not a moment too soon. Lydia _hated_ the Reach with a passion. Well, not the Reach, to be exact, but the fact that astonishingly large bands of crazed Forsworn had attempted, many times, to eradicate the travelling duo. And they weren't above night raids on their little camp, hence why the Housecarl had been sleeping in her armour.

Her Thane had decided to pitch their tent near a rather steep cliff, which incited her protests, but she humbly agreed with him after he explained that the cliff meant the Forsworn could only attack from one side. _Not_ the cliff side, he had so helpfully added with that stupid smile of his. Not to mention the large lone pine tree nearby which helped to block out the frigid westerly autumn winds. But she had to admit the view was breathtaking.

The vast open sky created a sense of endless freedom that, though she was used to the sweeping plains of Whiterun, had a… different feel. Wild, feral even, and more _alive._ She could spot the lights of Rorikstead in the distance, and she thought if she squinted hard enough the fires in Solitude were the cause of those faint twinkling flashes to the north.

Lydia gave the tiniest of smiles to herself. She loved this land. Skyrim was her home. She belonged here as much as the rocks beneath her feet, as surely as the stars peppered across the sky.

She inched a little closer to the ledge to get a better look at the lights to the north, but a voice from the darkness made her jump for the second time that night.

"Don't get too close, Lydia. I _really_ don't feel like climbing down there and scraping you off the rocks."

She twisted round and there was her Thane, sitting on a rock near the fire with a crafty smile on his dark face and amusement glinting in his eyes. She glared at him, once her heart steadied a little. She forgot he was on guard duty.

"Of course, _my Thane_ ," she said with a prickle of irritation. "I wouldn't want you to trouble yourself." Thinking of it, she probably shouldn't have spoken to her Thane in this manner, but he had scared her, and he knew it. She tensed, expecting a rebuke.

He merely laughed. So she relaxed.

The man was not one to throw orders around, and he never seemed annoyed with her. Or anyone. In fact, he treated her and nearly every soul they stumbled upon more like an old friend than someone to be wary of. Than a Housecarl. Which was odd, to say the least. Her exhaustive training for this position had entrenched in her mind the fact that her future Thane would most likely be a very large, very mean Nord with a scarred, hardened face and a personality to match.

So one could imagine the shock upon her face as she met her Thane for the very first time and found he was the entire opposite of what she had been expecting all these years. Not that it was a bad thing, but it was… odd. Like the man himself. Like the things he said, and the things he knew, and nearly everything he did.

He gestured for her to come sit by the fire, and she was tempted to simply stomp back into the tent with not so much as a backwards glance, but a particularly cold gust of wind convinced her otherwise. She crossed her arms to keep warm and sauntered wearily over to the fire with another shiver running up her spine. This armour could protect her from the fires of a dragon or from the teeth of any monster, but not from the biting Skyrim cold. No, not even her Nord blood was enough. Not tonight.

She had to sit next to him on the rock as it was the only one close enough to the fire. But she didn't mind. She could still look out over the plains and hills below.

The Imperial was lounging comfortably on the rocks, right on the edge of the firelight, and the Housecarl winced as she sat down next to him. How he was not in pain was anyone's guess.

When she settled down he straightened up a bit.

"You're getting quite the tongue there, Lydia. Soon you'll be able to keep up with me." The light flickered thinly across his playful smirk, revealing his breath in the frigid air.

"Well, _my Thane,_ when one has the pleasure of travelling with such a revered person, she tends to pick up on some of his habits. Admirable or not."

He laughed again, louder this time, and she could no longer hold her anger. He had an infectious laugh, a contagious personality that not even the frigid night could dampen.

"See? Look at you! You make me so proud," he teased, lightly bumping his shoulder against hers. She said nothing.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, both staring into the dying embers and listening to the near utter silence of the night.

Despite only knowing her Thane for a few weeks, she felt… _relaxed_ around him. Comfortable, even. Which, again, was odd. She had expected to be standing at attention the rest of her life, ready at her Thane's every beck and call. To be a voiceless, faceless blank slate in the infinitely more exciting life of the Thane. A background piece. Furniture to hang weapons on, a mule to carry packs. A shield to take the blow.

Not that she was complaining, though. It was nice to unwind sometimes. She never really had that luxury, and she was still learning how to deal with it. Things were _easy_ around this Imperial. Which was _hard._

After a little while her Thane broke the silence.

"So. This little trip of ours has been simply _riveting._ I am loathe to return, you know. Sleeping on rocks and forgoing bathing has been quite the adventure. Not to mention dodging the bands of murderous forest hobos." He glanced sideways at her, waiting for a chuckle or a remark that never came. His eyes slid back to the fire. "But, sadly, all adventures must come to an end. When we get back to Whiterun, I was thinking I'd get Adrianne to patch up my armour. That saber-tooth nearly ripped me in half yesterday. Fix me up before, you know, something _else_ tries to eat me."

Lydia tore her eyes from the embers and they slipped to the rather large gash through the leather covering his chest area.

"A sound plan, my Thane."

"Lydia, please, for the _thousandth_ time, it's Cato. Not 'my Thane'." His voice wasn't irritated or exasperated. It was monotone. He had said this time and time again.

She rolled her eyes and he continued.

"It's going to be expensive. It's a pretty big tear. _Sabre-_ sized, I'd wager," he added with a little smile. "But the damned cat's hide will help pay for it."

She chuckled a little – well, not chuckled, really. More like blew some air through her noise in a mildly entertained way.

Lydia doubted she'd ever forget the horror the cat had caused her yesterday. The feeling of her heart soaring up into her throat, the rush of air leave her body as she watched, wide-eyed and destitute, as the great beast slammed into the Imperial and dragged him into the ground. The sound of the growling, and the helpless cry her Thane gave, and the roar of blood rushing in her ears, under her skin. She had been certain, as sure as the sky was blue, that the tremendous paws had ripped right through his light armour and torn into his skin. And there was one electrifyingly horrible moment as he lay still on the hard ground, the great cat circling and snarling in its primal way. In her rage and fear the Housecarl had thrown herself back at the cat and finally managed to put a sword through it's neck.

Her Thane was alright, though. It had only caused a small cut and a bit of bruising. A few health potions had fixed it. He always seemed to just slip past the danger. Had this uncanny knack of _just_ making it out okay.

She had convinced herself that her concern for his life was merely the product of her oath to protect him, and her fear of facing the Jarl with the news that she had failed in her duties. But she knew there was more than that. Perhaps even more than the fact that they fought so well together, and it would be a shame if she was reassigned a Thane. She was beginning to think she actually _liked_ the man. That maybe his jokes weren't so bad. And perhaps he really wasn't the _evil, faithless Imperial bastard_ him and his kind had been branded.

He glanced over to her. "Thanks for that, by the way. I'd probably be inside the stomach of that animal right now if you hadn't been there. That makes us, what – three and four? Damn," he smirked. "Lydia, go fall off the ledge. I need to save you. Make it even."

She flushed slightly at the compliment, thankful it was dark and cold, but waved it away.

"I am sworn to protect you with my life." He gave her an exasperated glare, but she continued to avoid his scolding. "May I ask you a question, my Thane?"

_"Cato,_ Lydia. But yeah, sure."

"Why do you _insist_ on wearing that leather armour? It tears too easily," she said, nodding to the gash on his chest. "If you wore the heavy stuff you wouldn't need to get it fixed so often."

He smiled again, leaning up with a little groan to grab the long stick he had been using as a fire poker, pushing around the burning wood absentmindedly. "I know. It can be a pain sometimes, and it doesn't really do much against heavy weapons. Or cats, apparently," he smiled. "But I find that it allows me to move easier. To dodge out of the way, I guess. I figure that avoiding getting hit in the first place is better than being slowed down by iron or steel armour and getting all banged up."

It made sense to her, she supposed, though she still preferred her own heavy armour. She felt safe in it. And she doubted that his small stature could even support the weight of heavier armour.

"But when you _do_ get hit –"

"The sabre-tooth was an anomaly."

"A – what?"

He frowned at her. "An _anomaly_. An… irregularity. An exception."

"Exception to what?"

"Getting hit."

Lydia frowned back at him. She wasn't stupid by any means, but sometimes the man could be downright _cryptic._

"I can repair your armour for you, my Thane." He threw her an irritated look. _"Cato,"_ she corrected. "I can repair it. I'll do so as soon as we get back."

"Lydia," he sighed through thin lips. He pushed a large log over and the embers flickered up in one big rush. "You don't _have_ to do everything for me, you know. You're going to have a good few days' rest when we get back." She was about to protest when he added, "I'm quite capable of surviving on my own, I'll have you know. I'm actually very good at it. Not to put myself on a high horse or anything."

Right. Well, he wasn't doing a very good job at _that._ "Then if you don't need me, why do you insist on bringing me along?" _More like dragging me along_ , she thought.

His smile softened and he said, "for the company."

Ah. Well. Her frozen face flushed red again, ears hot despite the cold, and she reached for the stick in his hands. She started poking at the fire for something to do. Anything to do. As long as it wasn't talking. She was good at killing people, but _talking_ to them?

A glowing log turned over and little golden flecks swirled up into the vast inky sky, making it difficult to tell what were stars and what was fire.

He must have realised she was uncomfortable and attempted to change the subject. "Sooo," he drawled, pretending to examine a scar on the back of his hand. "What brings you out of the warm tent on this absolutely _lovely_ Skyrim evening?"

"The company," she retorted, almost without thinking.

His laugh was nothing short of wild. It boomed out across the hills, echoing through the grasses and rocks of the Reach, the sound so foreign but natural here, now, infectious and spreading like a wildfire, and she couldn't help it.

She smiled.

_"Ha!_ Aha! _There_ it is!" he cried out suddenly, startling her. She stared at him, question no doubt colouring her face. "I never thought I'd get to see it!"

"My Thane - " she started.

"Lydia, it's _Cato,"_ he cut her off.

"Cato, I don't - "

"You smiled! Just then, you smiled. I don't think I've _ever_ seen you smile."

She froze, a sour sort of taste filling her mouth, and an icy silence filling their little camp.

His laughing sizzled and died, like a spark to water.

"My Th- Cato," she corrected with more than a little sharpness. She was looking into his face, but finding it more than a little difficult. "What in the name of Talos is _that_ supposed to mean?"

He shrugged indifferently, infuriatingly nonchalant. "I'm simply saying that you don't smile enough. You take this whole Housecarl business much too seriously. Lighten up a little."

What? How _dare_ he – how could he –? There were no words in any tongue to illuminate just how _livid_ she was at that moment.

She was performing her duty to the very best of her abilities. She had fought for and trained years for the honour of holding this position. She had been disappointed, truthfully, when she was first introduced to him, but she held her tongue like a Housecarl should _._ An _Imperial?_ As her Thane? As a Nord hero? As _Dragonborn?_ Everything he did was reflected upon her – everything he _was,_ whether one sided with the Empire or the Stormcloaks. Always eyed with suspicion, always wanted nowhere. And she was sworn to him until the day one of them died. Some God must have had a dark sense of humour.

She had been his pack mule while she followed him across Skyrim on every stupid errand he went on, and saved him every time he blundered, and cooked for him and set up camp and guided him through the wilderness so his pampered southern hide wouldn't swim off a waterfall or walk straight into a labyrinth or werewolf pit. She was tired and cold and bruised nearly every hour of the day. There was no room for play, no opening for fun, no affordance for lax. Yes, she took her job seriously. And he had the nerve – no, the _audacity_ – to tell her to 'lighten up'?

It took every ounce of her brute strength not to throw her fist in his face.

He laughed again, watching the rage and disbelief flash across her face.

"See? You're doing it now. It was a joke, Lydia. I didn't mean it."

No, it _wasn't_ a joke. Not for her. There had been truth behind his words, however shrouded in his eloquent Imperial accent. His laughing was only irritating her now.

He soon figured out that her icy silence meant she was not impressed in the slightest.

He frowned. Opened his mouth to say something. Closed it. Rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, staring off into the night.

Good. He _should_ feel horrible. Because _she_ certainly did.

He blew out a long breath and it twisted into the cold air so thick with tension one could almost cut it with a knife.

"Look," he said, placing the tips of his fingers on her arm in the most hesitant way. Soft, but burning. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"Hm," she mumbled.

"Honestly."

"It's alright, my Thane. I will try to be less formal in the future." It was stiff, tart. But true. She had no right to be cross with her Thane.

"No, it's not alright, Lydia. I'm sorry. Look, I know you take this job seriously, and that's fine. But you don't have to treat me like the Emperor, for gods' sakes," he chuckled.

Her expression softened. He let his fingers fall and followed her gaze back to the flames.

"I'll be honest. It's weird, you know. I don't like it. I know I'm Thane and all, and – and _Dragonborn,"_ he said, the word almost unpleasant on his tongue, "but I just can't get used to it. I've never had people under my control before. Not good at telling them what to do. And you know how clumsy I can be." He smirked. "By the Eight, that would be a disaster. Can you even imagine?"

No, she couldn't. He would probably end up accidentally sending an entire army over the edge of a cliff.

"I'm not going to order you around. You're my friend, and I don't want to do that."

She froze for a second. _Friend?_ Cato thought of her as a friend? She was taken aback, but something inside her softened.

She'd never really had a friend before. Not like him, at least.

He smirked conspiratorially. "Now don't going around telling anyone I said any of that, alright? I can name a hundred people who already brand me as a liar and con artist. Gods, I can just see them now, all with their torches and pitchforks, breaking down my door. Vilkas would _love_ that. Aela too, now that I think of it."

Lydia cracked a sliver of a smile, letting go of a breath she didn't know she was holding. "I'll try not to let it slip, _my Thane."_

"Alright, I deserved that one. But from now on it's Cato."

"Of course."

He gave a crooked grin, his head tilted a little, the light carving deep pools of dark on his already dark face. A flash of white in the night, except for that spot of black, near the back, where he seemed to be missing a tooth. She liked his smile, she figured. It suited him. And she found herself smiling back.

After a moment of silence he stood up and stretched.

"Well. I think I'm going to bed now. It's after midnight, and my watch is nearly over. Is that alright?"

She nodded, once again staring into the fire, but she could make out his slender form from the corner of her eyes.

"Alright. 'Night, Lydia."

He stepped around her and over to the tent, his leather boots making hardly a sound. Just before he bent down and crawled inside he paused, looking over his shoulder.

"Hey," he called softly. She looked up into his face, and his bright brown eyes, so different from the pale blue of the Nords she was accustomed to, caught her off-guard, not for the first time. "What I said earlier, about your smile. I meant it. You should do it more often. It… suits you." He smirked again and went inside the tent.

The rest of the cold windy night passed with Lydia gazing into the flames pondering what her Thane had said.

Maybe this was okay. Maybe everything wasn't so bad, in the end. Maybe _he_ wasn't so bad.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she shouldn't be so serious. And maybe she should lighten up a bit.

She smiled at the thought. He _was_ right. It did suit her.

* * *

They had walked the whole morning, right from dawn, in comfortable silence. In fact, they'd hardly spoke at all while folding up the tent and putting out the fire. The most they'd done was sneak a few curious glances at each other, him no doubt wondering where he stood after last night, and Lydia – well, truthfully, Lydia wondering the same thing.

Her mind was still contemplating over last night's conversations, and she stared at the ground, her boots crunching in the frosty grasses. She didn't notice when they finally crossed into Whiterun Hold and the rolling hills gave way to flatter plains where the giant mammoth still roamed free. As such she was not paying attention to where she was walking. Some root or rock or bone jutting out from the frozen ground, hidden by the grasses, caught her foot and pitched her forward. Her packs were full of useless junk her Thane had burdened her with, so she could not manage to catch her footing. She was dragged to the ground.

Cato heard her fall, and he turned around to see her struggling to stand again. He rushed over, and Lydia suddenly found a tanned hand offered in her face. Her hands were cold and wet, and so were her knees, and her pride was more than a little wounded. But she took it gratefully and he pulled her up.

They stood facing each other for a moment, hands still together, and a blush found it's way to her face as she smiled again. Gods, what was _wrong_ with her? Couldn't she face him without turning into a beet? Apparently not.

He returned the gesture and said, "See? It's not that hard."

He let go of her hand and turned around, leaving her there smiling in the grass with his touch still burning her hands.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you liked it!**

**Cato's name is pronounced _Kay-toe,_ and it's Roman, as he is an Imperial.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Chapter two is here!**

**Thanks for all the kudos and bookmarks, guys! Really means a lot.**

**This chapter is very similar to the original chapter 2, but longer and with some noticeable changes.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

_"Shit._ Lydia, hold up. I need to sit down."

Cato's strangled words pierced the utter silence like a shrill blade. The Housecarl twisted round, heart still thrashing against her ribs, to look back at him. She could barely make him out in the thin pale light, only a watery silhouette shimmering in the gloom, but she saw he was clutching his right shoulder and bending over in pain. His breathing was heavy and ragged, his eyes shut tight in a losing battle to block out the agony he was in. His free hand was flat against the damp rocky wall of the tunnel, holding his weakened body upright.

She wanted to let him rest. She truly did. But she knew they needed to get out of here.

"My Thane, we _can't._ We need to keep going." Her voice was barely above a whisper and it quavered in fear and adrenaline, but the endless hollow cavern reverberated the sound around them, exacerbating the noise. It was so deafeningly silent it nearly hurt her ears.

Cato sighed, eyes still shut, and after a moment he opened them. They were a little wild, a bit too desperate, and brimming with hollowed-out pain. Lydia felt a twinge of pity.

He shook his head ever so slightly, and looking her in the eyes he muttered, "I can't. I'm sorry."

He was too exhausted to say any more, but Lydia saw the plead in his eyes. She stood there, frozen, her legs facing forward into the dark unknown, her upper body twisted around to face her Thane. Torn between going on, and going back. Or staying here. The low tunnel was hauntingly silent except for the distant sounds of dripping water, her Thane's ragged breathing, and her own thrumming heart. You could probably hear your blood rushing under your skin, if you listened close enough.

After a moment's contemplation, she nodded back and carefully tread over to him, stepping over boulders and across small pools of water.

He sighed deep with relief as she reached him and helped lower him to the ground in a sitting position against the cold stone wall. He winced and hissed as his shoulder moved, and when he was finally sitting, he sighed, closed his eyes again, and leaned his head back against the wall. He didn't even care that he was sitting in a puddle and that the holes worn through his leather boots were letting the cold water in. He just wanted to rest.

And truthfully, so did she.

But she was a Housecarl – the _Dragonborn's_ Housecarl – and duty would not let her.

So with aching bones and tired eyes she crouched low beside him, rummaging through her abnormally light pack. She grumbled as she felt around for the familiar glass flask of a healing potion, but she couldn't find one. Nor a stamina potion. Oblivion, she'd even settle for a fortifying flask. But there was nothing.

Which she knew already.

"By the Nine…" she growled. "I can't see _anything."_ It wasn't helping that the only light in this damned place were the bizarre glowing mushrooms sprouting seemingly from the stone.

Her hands grasped around a book, the crinkly, puckered leather of an ages-old journal. She paused. And then she took it out of her bag, reading the title of it.

_Stromm – Last Seed, 4E 201_

She growled – and really, she hadn't meant to, but it came out from deep within her, an angry, tired growl, and Lydia was halfway through the motion of tossing the thing back down the passage they came when she felt a weak hand grab her by the arm.

"No," Cato mumbled, eyes half open. "Keep it."

"My _Thane,"_ she protested, shaking his hand off in irritation. "I can't keep holding on to it. We're not going to find out what happened, anyway. Just let me get rid of it."

He shook his head silently, and she felt her fury roar up inside her.

It was this damned book's fault they were down here in the first place. Some Altmer magician had asked them to kill the giant spider blocking the entrance to this Dwemer ruin. Nchuand-Zel, she thought it was called. Simple enough task. Not something she herself would ever agree to do, but this was Cato she was talking about. It seemed the word _no_ was absent in his vocabulary.

But the man had been simply _enraptured_ by the ruins. He'd never seen anything like them before. Apparently, they didn't have their like in Cyrodiil. Lydia didn't care much for them, to be honest, but she could see the appeal to an outsider. The ancient dwarven relics were massive, and beautiful, and so very _different_ than any other type of architecture found in Skyrim. Or anywhere else, really. _Sort of like a little glimpse into the far distant past,_ her Thane had said. Great hollow echoes of what once stood in this place.

So he had been adamant that the two of them explore the ruins a bit more. Just a bit, he promised. Enough to get a real up-close and personal view from the inside. She had never been inside one herself, but she had heard the bedtime stories warning of hideous, pale-skinned demons and ancient steam machines dwelling deep within the bowels of these places. So, though she had no desire to find out if the rumours were true, she grudgingly agreed and had followed him inside.

That had been, what? Four or five days ago now?

So. Long, _long_ winding, tampering, looting, Falmer-crushing, steam-booby-trap-filled, almost-falling-off-a-precipice, being-nearly-decapitated-by-a-Centurion, touching-ancient-magical-things-that-should-not-be-touched story short: Cato found the book, a journal, detailing some sort of treasure or such nonsense deeper inside and _yes,_ he had dragged his Housecarl along for the ride.

If they ever found this Stromm guy, Lydia would be quick to deliver a long, long list of complaints and personal grievances. _After_ she stuck the bastard through with her greatsword, of course.

Cato coughed painfully, and Lydia was wrenched from her reverie. She tossed the book back inside the bag with a ragged sigh and continued digging around.

She managed to pull out a cloth wrapped around a stale piece of bread. Having nothing else to go on, she unwrapped it and broke a chunk off, offering it to her Thane. She nudged his forearm to get his attention.

For a man with a usually tawny complexion, his face had turned a rather disconcerting pasty colour. Nearly as pale as her own skin. He cracked his eyes open just enough to see her offering and shake his head dismissively.

_"My Thane-"_

"It's _Cato,"_ he hissed. "Honestly, Lydia. _Cato."_

"Right.

"I'm so _tired_ of stale bread, you know. It's getting old. I want a nice steak of venison. And some potatoes and carrots. And a giant tankard of mead," he finished with a smile. More of a grimace, really. "Think you can find me some?"

She rolled her eyes at him, but in the dim light he couldn't see it. "Stop talking like that. You're making me hungry."

"Then _you_ eat the bread. I don't want it. I'll just wait till we get out of here."

She scowled. "You're not going anywhere if you don't get better soon." She lowered her gaze to his shoulder.

He opened his eyes halfway and, like her, slipped to his bloody and torn arm.

"Yeah. It's pretty bad, isn't it?" he asked weakly.

She bit her lip, hesitating, wiping some cold dew from her forehead.

"C'mon, Lydia," he whispered with the faintest of smiles. "You can tell me. Is it gonna leave a scar? It better be a badass scar, is all I'm saying."

She didn't want to say anything, but yes. It was pretty bad. His shoulder was ripped up fairly good, crusted black blood in some parts and painfully raw and red in others, a small mass of healed and unhealed tissue blended brutally together. Lydia had hacked off the leather shoulder pads with his dagger so it didn't irritate him as he walked, much to his chagrin, and she'd wrapped his shoulder with an old shirt of his, and then one of her own, but it was now caked with blood and grime and she didn't have a new one. He'd drank all their health potions, and then their stamina potions, and most of the food – what little he hadn't vomited from the Falmer poison coursing through his veins. All they had left was the bread, but she didn't tell him that.

"That machine did a number on you," she whispered.

"It was a Centurion," he corrected, shuffling to get a little more comfortable. "An ancient Dwemer mechanism constructed of plate metal and steam. A guardian of sorts, I guess you could say. Designed to protect dwarven knowledge and fortunes. _Treasures,"_ he smirked. "Which is why we're keeping the journal."

"Right," she nodded, not even pretending to understand or care. _Imperials._ "But you should still eat something."

"I don't want it."

Lydia's lips thinned in barely-concealed ire. She stared at the stale chunk longingly, her stomach an aching mess of rumbles, but she wrapped it back up and tossed it inside her bag.

She'd make him down _something,_ if it was the last thing she ever did.

She pulled out her water flask, the poor thing dented and troublingly light. Cato had emptied his yesterday. Well, she thought it was yesterday. She hadn't seen the sun in so long.

"Here. At least drink something." Before he could protest this time, she lifted the opening to his mouth and tipped it back, tilting his chin maybe a bit too forcefully. He coughed and spluttered, but gulped it down his parched throat.

"Gods, Lydia! You could have warned me, maybe," he coughed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He turned up his nose. "What…? This tastes strange. What's in this?"

"Blue mountain flower. There's no more health potions, and you had a few extra in your pack. It's the next best thing."

"Blue mountain–? Lydia, it's darker than Oblivion down here. How do you know that wasn't nightshade or something? Are you trying to kill me?"

She screwed the cap back on the flask. "If I wanted to kill you I would have left you back there with that Centurion thing. Or that chaurus. Or the Falmer. The _hundreds_ of Falmer."

He managed a weak smirk. "Ha. Well. You got me there."

She set the empty flask aside, being careful he didn't hear it clink hollowly on the stone, her heart sinking heavily.

That was it, then. No more potions. No more water. No more ideas.

That would be a grand story, wouldn't it? _Lydia Battleborn, esteemed Housecarl to the Thane of Whiterun, the mighty Dragonborn of Legend – found dead in a cave just a month after landing the job._ Her father would just _love_ that.

"Out of everyone I've ever met, my Thane," she sighed, slumping back against the wall beside him, "you have the _worst_ luck of them all."

"Hm. Well. You must not have met many people in your time."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well. For one, I escaped the headsman's block, so that automatically makes me one lucky bastard."

She smiled a little. "I guess so."

"Two – I'm the Dragonborn. Not really sure what that means yet, but I asked around Whiterun a bit."

"Did you now?"

"Yeah. I'm some sort of hero, you know. With the soul of a dragon. Pretty lucky, if I do say so myself."

She shook her head. "Right. And?"

"And I've been thinking. If I'm going to die in some dark, cold shithole of the world, a million miles from home, at least I get to do it in good company."

Lydia lolled her head to the side, cracking her eyes open a bit. He was smiling, despite it all, his pale face shiny with cold sweat in the pallid glow of the cave mushrooms, his eyes tired but still holding their mischievous spark. Even like this, the Imperial, his eyes, what he said – it warmed her, in a way she hadn't been expecting from him. From anyone.

"Your arm is nearly shredded off. You've been nicked by a poison Falmer blade. We're lost, and have no food or water or potions, and we're cold and wet and dying. And you say something like _that?"_

He shrugged, wincing a little at the pain that caused. "What do you want me to say? Shall I regale with you any regrets?"

"Might as well."

He sighed. "Okay. Let's see. Well, I regret leaving the Empire, sometimes. Only because of the ungodly cold and snow here. I regret eating that old cheese the other day. You know, that shit the bartend recommended. I'll never understand you Nords and your love of weird shitty food. Hmm. I guess I regret not bringing more potions, now that you mention it. Kind of a stupid reason to die. And I regret not getting to know you a bit better." His mouth twitched in the most tiniest of smiles. "You're not so bad. For a Nord. And you're kind of pretty."

Lydia's heart thrummed oddly erratic against her chest, and she was glad it was dark and his eyes were closed because of it.

Lydia was bad with words. And with people. Always had been. Good with a sword, though. She knew what to do when the monsters came. But this? Set a dragon loose on her. Fiery death would be preferable.

Cato's eyes opened a sliver and swivelled in her direction when no answer came. A smug sort of smirk crawled its way up his tired face. "What? Am I not allowed to say you're pretty? Is it against some sort of law?"

"It is, actually."

His smile faltered a little. "What? Really?"

"There are fraternisation policies in place for Housecarls and Thanes."

"Oh."

"Didn't Irileth tell you?"

"No. Well, maybe. I stopped listening to her after a while. She's so boring."

"Cato!"

"What?"

Lydia smiled a little. "Well. I don't blame you, really. She _does_ tend to drone on."

"See! It's not just me, then. Proventus gave me a nasty glare when he caught me staring off into space."

"Proventus gives everyone a nasty glare."

"Aww. And here I was, thinking I was special."

"I don't know about _special,_ but you're _something_ alright."

"Oh, you wound me so. Literally," he chuckled, rolling his injured shoulder. "Ouch. Shit. Shouldn't have done that."

"You mean I _save you so."_

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say."

"That makes us, what, then – ten and six?"

"Ten and –? Gods, Lydia, you give yourself too much credit. The giant spider didn't count."

"Oh, I think it did."

"Right. Well, if by some Divine intervention you get me out of this mess alive, I'll give that one to you."

"It'll be eleven and six, then, I'd wager."

"Alright, now you're pushing it."

He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

Her smiles were more frequent as of late.

And really, if she was going to die anywhere, this wouldn't be such a terrible place.

She found herself staring down the long, cold corridor from where they came, it's end – if it _had_ an end – draped in thick curtains of the kind of dark you can only get miles beneath the soil. And she found herself wondering just how many other poor souls were still here, under the pressing stone; how many others, over the long ages of the world, wandered down and never came back up. She wondered if anyone would ever know them, come looking for their bones, put them to rest. She wondered if she should number herself among them.

"Lydia?" Cato asked quietly, the sound echoing off away into the dark. "Can I tell you something?"

She pulled her eyes from the passageway and onto his. "Yes."

"I think you're maybe the third person I've met in all of Skyrim that hasn't tried to skewer me or brand me a coward or traitor. _Literally_ brand me – I've seen the looks the stablemaster gives me. He's just waiting to catch me in my sleep, I know it."

"Was there a point to this conversation, my Thane?"

"There was. I just wanted to say thank you. For everything. In case I don't get the chance later. You've been kinder to me than anyone else has in – well, let's say a long time. You're a good friend. As good a friend a Nord can be, I mean," he added, simply unable to end anything on a serious note.

"Well," she said to the endless tunnel before her. "Since this is it, then, I'll have you know I don't hate you."

"Why, thank you kindly."

"I mean it, my Thane," she said, twisting her head round to him. "Cato, I mean. I _did._ When we first met. But not now." And she couldn't hold back the little smile that spread across her face as she added, "You're not so bad, you know. For an _Imperial."_

Cato laughed, a loud, bright sound in the dark, but it was cut short when it seemed all the air left his body in a sharp swift _whoosh_ of pain.

 _"Shhhhit,"_ he hissed between his teeth, face turning three shades whiter.

"My Thane, are you alright?" she breathed, real fear lacing her tone. She placed a hand on the side of his face and felt his forehead with the back of her other hand. He was warm. Too warm. Even for him, which was saying something – his skin was always hot, whether for his kind taking root in the warm southlands of the Empire, or because of the part of him that was irrevocably dragon, she didn't know.

"It's – _Cato,"_ he seethed, looking paler than death and about ready to vomit. "Seriously. _Cato."_

It was within that very moment Lydia fully grasped the gravity of their situation.

They were dying. _He_ was dying.

Her heart did a strange thing then – it both sunk in her chest and thrashed against her ribcage, entirely destitute and yet exceedingly desperate. Wanting to give up, and wanting to run, to flee, to fly far away from this place of dark and cold and death.

 _Death._ She'd never really pondered her own death before. Always assumed it would come quick and bloody, at the sharp end of an errant sword. Not like this. Slow and cold and wet, waiting, waiting. _Waiting._

Neither had she thought of Cato's death before. Except that one time with the saber-tooth, and a few scuffles with the odd bandit or dragon, but she had refused to accept that he might be mortally wounded. It was absolutely unthinkable that he should die before she would. That was her job. Her life's purpose. She was a sword and shield. _His_ sword and shield.

But she was also his friend. He'd said so himself. And he was hers.

She let go of his face and shook her head furiously. The silence of the passageway intensified, and she felt it thrumming in her ears, so old and deep it almost hurt, pressing against her skin coldly. "No, Cato." She paused as her breath hitched in her throat. "I'll get you out of here."

"Lydia," he whispered, and his voice was so fragile it frightened her. She'd never heard it so thin, never heard it without laughter or pride, even in the face of scorn. She refused to listen to him or look into his eyes. She was blinking over and over, trying to keep the tears from spilling over the brim of her own eyes, eyes that were desperately darting around in the dark, scanning, searching for something, _anything,_ willing the answer or a way out to suddenly show itself. His tanned face had fallen to a ghostly white, now, and beads of sweat rolled down it, down the veins straining against his neck. She resumed her futile search of her pack.

"There has to be _something…"_ she seethed, cursing the dark.

"Lydia, please," he said again, louder this time. But she wouldn't listen. Her heart began its erratic racing again, and it became so loud she was certain Cato could hear it. "Shit. _Shit._ I think I'm –" And then he turned, coughing viciously, violent spasms raking his entire body as he heaved and threw up what little water was in his stomach, groaning, clutching at his gut.

"My Thane," Lydia breathed, placing her hands on his shoulder, his back. His muscles were quivering beneath her skin, stretching, pulling, letting go in agony. "I don't know…"

But she _did_ know. It was the cold. It was exhaustion. It was his vile wound, and the Falmer poison inside him. It was everything, and it was nothing she could fix.

"Fuck," he wheezed, swaying on all fours, his pasty face beaded with cold sweat. He coughed once more, shaking his head. "Shit. I think I might be sick, Lydia."

Despite everything – the crushing silence, the unending dark, this labyrinth that would surely be their tomb – Lydia managed the tiniest, exasperated of smirks. It was wiped clean, though, when Cato could no longer hold himself up, and fell onto his side on the cold, wet stone.

"My Thane!" she cried, shaking him, moving the hair from his eyes. "Cato, _please!"_

"Mmrm," he moaned unintelligibly. "Shit. I'm so tired…"

Her panic kicked up a notch. He was slipping.

"Cato, it will be alright," she said, willing her voice flat, trying her mightiest to soothe him, bring him back, make him sit up straight again. "I'll get you out of here. Danica will fix you up, make you better. You'll be fine. You'll see," she smiled fakely. "We'll be back in Whiterun soon, back at Breezehome. I'll make you some dinner and you'll leave your stuff all over the kitchen again, and I'll have to clean it up. We'll be killing dragons again in no time. You'll make me carry all the things you find, and your friends at Jorrvaskr will drag you back up for a drink, and, and…"

_And what, Lydia?_

She had no idea. Not one inkling of an idea. She was completely and entirely out of ideas, her mind an exhausted, rotten mush of regret and shame.

Only a miracle could pull them out of this mess. Only a God in a good mood. It wasn't as if she could magically bring him back to –

 _"Magic!"_ she cried, the idea coming to her in a violent spark of recognition, like a brilliant light piercing through the darkness, like the sun cresting over the mountains after a long, cold night. "Magic!"

And she furrowed her brows in concentration, mind bent and focused like never before, in a last desperate attempt to produce a Healing Hands spell.

Lydia had never learnt magic as a child, always having been brought up with the notion that if you were strong enough, you could kill your enemy before they ever hurt you. There was no need for her to learn it. Cato had limited knowledge on the subject as well, but he insisted on teaching his Housecarl some simple spells in case of an emergency, usually late at night by the campfire, or on the long road from one place to another. She'd never really used any of them outside of practice until now.

She could feel the magic inside her twist and coil as it thirsted to bend to her will. It _wanted_ to be used, to be set free. She just had to let it be.

But she didn't know how. It was very difficult for her to produce anything – always had been. Magic had to be taught young, to a fresh mind, or people 'hardened' over the years and it became tougher to learn.

The pressure was building up right behind her eyes, pressing against her skull, pushing to get out. She could feel in in her fingertips, a fuzzy sort of crackling, and right at the moment she thought her head would simply explode with the effort, her magic broke free of its restraints and swirled around in her hands, lighting up the tunnels that had remained in the dark for centuries with a sharp orange glow.

She laughed as the pressure receded, the pounding in her skull fizzed out and she herself felt light as air, proud she'd done something her father had condemned her whole life, something Cato had taught her to do. She placed her hands directly on the man's wounded shoulder. It opened up again as he cried out in pain, a weak, gurgling sort of moan, just forceful enough to let her know he was still there. The light spun and rwisted round her hands, around his arm, glowing, sparkling, moving with a mind and will of its own. It was both _of_ her and _because_ of her, part of her and yet its very own being. The blood retreated. The flesh became smooth. As the spell went on, even Cato's skin gained some colour. The poison drew itself out.

When the spell ended and the passageway was plunged back into darkness, she dropped her arms and was left there kneeling by his side, breathless with the effort, drained beyond her own memory. She used her last shred of strength to pull him back up into a sitting position against the stone wall, and then collapsed against it herself, entirely and utterly spent.

The two adventurers sat there in silence, listening to the water drip from the ceiling into the puddles all around them, to their own laboured breathing. Thinking of nothing, waiting on no one.

After some time, or maybe no time at all, Cato spoke softly into the dark.

"Gods, that felt good."

Lydia, having rested long enough, opened her eyes and glared at him.

"You stupid ass," she growled, and she punched him in the arm. His left arm, not the wounded one, and rather hard.

"Ow!" he half-wined, half-laughed, his voice echoing down the halls. "What was that for?"

"For dragging me down here. For not listening to me." She paused a moment before continuing. "For almost dying on me. You would have left me here."

"It's not like I wanted to, you know," he countered as he rolled his shoulder, trying to smooth out the ache of where she hit him. He dared not lift his wounded arm for fear that the pain would return.

"Just don't even think about it again."

"Fine. I'll try not to get poisoned and bashed by a giant fucking steam guy again. The first time was _so much fun_. Seriously."

Lydia gritted her teeth. She could not believe she was arguing with her Thane right now.

"Fine," she harrumphed, turning away from him.

"Hm. Yeah. _Fine."_

With a swift torrent of anger she leaned over and picked up her pack, and he stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. Rummaging around in it again produced Stromm's journal and Lydia swiftly and carelessly tossed it down the tunnel, back the way they came. It disappeared from view, swallowed by the darkness, and landed with a thud and a splash into a relatively deep puddle.

He looked over to her incredulously and she gave him a wickedly satisfied smile.

"There. You want your dwarven treasure, fine. _You_ go get it. But I'm not saving your hide again."

Lydia was certain he'd be furious, and shout at her, and spew a string of rather unholy words guaranteed to turn the heads of even the most bawdy drunkards, as he was inclined to do on occasion.

But he just laughed. It was his real laugh, not the strangled one he had used the past few days, down here in the cold and the dark. She looked right into his eyes and, though they were bloodshot and heavy and dull, they no longer held that terrifying finality. They looked alive again.

All her anger at him fizzed away and she found herself smiling and blinking back tears, and she didn't know why. Lydia never cried.

But he was okay. They both were okay. They would make it out alive. Like he always did, like he forever seemed to slip by death and danger. Narrowly, maybe, and not without trouble, but still. She was not one to question destiny, or prophecy, or the will of the gods, whatever you wanted to call a Dragonborn. An Imperial Dragonborn. As long as they were okay, she didn't care. No one questions the baker on what's in the pie, as long as it tastes good in the end. That was something her father had once told her. Never really understood it until now.

She smiled. She felt light, like a heavy burden had been removed from her aching shoulders. She placed her hand on the back of his neck and leaned forward until her forehead was touching his in a sign of camaraderie.

She had never been this close to his face before. He was sweaty and grimy and needed a shave, but she smiled and he smiled back.

"Seriously, though. Don't ever think of leaving me again, or I'll hurt more than just your arm."

"I won't," he whispered.

"Good."

And she believed him.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello again! Here is chapter 3! Like the previous chapter, it is very similar to the original third chapter, just longer and updated.**

**I've always been fascinated by the race dynamics present in the Elder Scrolls series. I think it's something worth looking at, especially considering Cato is an Imperial in Skyrim. It also makes for excellent drama and romantic conflict, hehe. So, warning: lot's of swearing and racist elements.**

**Side note: the word _scrib_ is part of my headcannon for this fic. I'm using it as an extremely racist word akin to some others seen in our own world. Remember those nasty little jumpy tail-thumpy grub things from Morrowind? Eughh. Those are called _scribs_ and I'm using it as an insult against Imperials here. Works well enough.**

**Thanks for all the new kudos and bookmarks! Like I said before, it really means a lot.**

**Enjoy, and if you are so inclined as to post a review about what you think, good or bad, I'd be very grateful!**

* * *

"I can't believe we let _Provincials_ like you wander Skyrim."

It wasn't the first time something like that was hurled his way, and he'd be a fool to believe it would be the last. But still, despite it all – the glares, the jabs, both outright and subtle, and whatever he might say aloud – it still stung, a little. Like the barbs of a hornet. Cato winced.

And – _curse his tongue,_ always getting him into trouble – he could not help but send a barb back. "Well, you _do."_ And he continued marching through the streets, eyes on the dirty, snowy ground, praying to any god that might listen or care to send the fat Nord the other way, or block his ears, or simply smite him where he stood. He felt Lydia prickle beside him, place her hand on arm, set her jaw in a grim defiance. If anyone hated Cato's tongue more than himself, it was Lydia. She'd told him once it was like a double-edged sword, capable of both pulling them out of danger and sliding them right into it. But the latter half seemed to get sharpened more. And he'd laughed at that.

"What was that? You lookin' for a fight, Imperial?" said fat Nord bellowed out in a thick ugly accent above the crowded market square. Almost at once a hush descended upon the normally buzzing array of shops and stalls, settling thickly and uncomfortably like a heavy wet snow. Eyes, both curious and wary, wandered over to the fat Nord and the two travellers – a strange pair, to be sure, a tan young man looking both guilty and annoyed and a tall pale woman looking about to throttle him.

Cato stopped in his tracks and frowned, though it was more to cover up the cringe from Lydia's nails digging into his skin.

 _Of course_ the gods hadn't listened or cared. Story of his life.

The fat Nord man, who had blue eyes, blonde hair, and a tangled braided beard to match, marched over to the pair and stood towering over them. His fists were clenched by his side, face red and quivering beneath his shaggy mane. "I _said_ are ya lookin' for a fight?"

The people closest to them had silently moved out of the way, and some further back either slunk inside a shop or alleyway, disappearing from sight, and still others crept out of inns and doorways, creating a wide, rough circle around the three individuals, like the fencing rings back in the Empire, Cato thought. The blacksmith's hammer clanged once, twice, then stopped. The snow fell lightly from the grey winter sky, blanketing the world thinly, coldly, and it seemed almost peaceful if one didn't consider the fact that a very irate, very scary-looking giant of a man had threatened two strangers in the congested plaza.

Lydia's heart thrummed in her chest, her grip tightening on Cato's arm to the point it would probably leave little marks. But she didn't care, because she _knew_ this would happen at some point. Here, at least, behind the shadows of crumbling Windhelm walls.

_Damn that man's tongue._

This Nord was _huge_ , even for a Nord. He was so close she could see the stains on his worn yellowed doublet and smell the old ale on his rancid breath. Lydia would admit she wasn't a good judge of character, but this man reeked of bitterness and scorn. Either he was a drunk with nothing to lose or an off-duty soldier with a grudge.

Both options were not desirable, and she really wanted to get out of there.

Apparently, Cato did too. After sizing up the man and deciding he wasn't worth it – well, worth his own head, maybe – he answered in as amicable a voice he could.

"Ah, no. Not really. Sorry. Just got back from a fight, actually. An Argonian, down by the docks. Feathers on his head and all. Looked more like a chicken, really. I'm not too keen on fighting another animal today, thanks. So we'll just be leaving." He jerked his arm, gesturing to Lydia to leave (and maybe pull her fingers out of his flesh, thank you). But before they even turned around, the giant of a man reached out and placed firm, massive callused hand on Cato's leathered shoulder.

"You talk too damn much. And yer lyin' through yer teeth, ya faithless _scrib._ I think ya are."

A slight murmur ran through the crowd at that, and hot fury spiked inside of Lydia. Unpleasant anger rose in her throat sharply and it felt bitter, sour, like the acrid taste of vomit.

What an awful, disgusting word. What a horrid thing, to stoop so low, to so casually toss around a word like… _that_. It made her feel sick.

The few Imperials in the crowd hung their heads low, darker faces red with shame, looking like they almost wished to melt into the snow. Lydia could scarcely blame them.

Cato's face hardly changed, but she felt him tense under her fingers. Defiant, angry, shameful. He couldn't have moved if he wanted to. The Nord had him held firmly in place. Clenching his jaw, the Imperial brushed off the man's hand. Lydia tensed herself, heart racing.

"Look, I don't want any trouble," he said quietly, taking step back. "We're just passing through."

"Just passin' through, are ya? Ya shouldn't 'ave come here in the first place." The fat Nord took a step closer.

Lydia closed what little distance remained between herself and her Thane protectively, body pressed up against him. Glaring at the man over Cato's shoulder, she clenched her remaining fist in an attempt not to throw it into his ugly face.

Cato held up his hands apologetically. "Listen, I apologise for… whatever it is I've done to offend you. We have some business here and then we'll be on our way."

The man took another step towards them, boots crunching in the snow, and they backed up a bit. "Ha! Business? Would that business be spyin' for the Empire? I bet there's more of you fuckin' rats scurryin' round here."

For the entire duration of their working relationship, Cato and Lydia hadn't entered the city of Windhelm once. It was Ulfric's kingdom, the Stormcloak stronghold, and an extremely racist place.

Cato was, by now, uncomfortably used to the bigotry and intolerance he received from people on an unfortunately frequent basis. Being an Imperial in the land of a people warring against your homeland and race had not been easy, but he'd learned to just ignore the slurs and the stares, however often he _really_ wanted to stick someone through for it. Or Shout them off a cliff, as he'd once imagined. But it was easier, he had said, to simply look down and keep moving.

Lydia, however, found it much harder to ignore. She had always thought her race to be a friendly one. Most Nords were honest, kind, hardworking folk who'd welcome friends and strangers alike with open arms and full mugs of ale. But travelling with Cato had shown her another side, a darker, bitter side of her people she'd have been happier never knowing about.

They had stared at him, glared at him, laughed at him, pointed at him, spit on the ground as he walked by, and charged him more for food and rent and supplies, simply because they could. He had been the butt of too many jokes, the underpayed, overworked errandboy, and not worthy of an ounce of respect, despite being the fabled Dragonborn of _their_ _own legends._ Not everyone had been like this, though, especially those that sided with the Empire, but more often than she liked, he – and she – had to turn and walk away.

Lydia herself was not innocent, however, and _this_ – this was something she would regret until her dying day: she had been among them. She had treated Cato with barely-concealed ire and disdain when they first met. He was, to her, someone not to be trusted. Jarl Balgruuf had seemed a right mad old man for giving the _enemy_ the honourable title of Thane. Her Jarl had not taken a side in the Civil War, but she knew he leant more to the side of the Empire.

Balgruuf's brother and personal Housecarl, Hrongar – Lydia's father – on the other hand, hated the Empire with a passion that burned hotter and brighter than dragon-fire in the night. She did not know why, exactly. The man never seemed to do anything spectacular or go anywhere but Dragonsreach nowadays, preferring to sulk and brood in the shadow of his eldest sibling, struggling between his festering animosity for his brother and the rest of the Battleborns at placing an _Empire rat_ in court and yet proving to the world he was the portrait of loyalty itself.

Lydia respected her father, of course, but she could not say she loved the man. She did not know when that had ever changed, to be honest. Maybe it never had.

And being of his blood yet young and somewhat more open-minded, she had looked at both sides of the coin, and while she didn't exactly hate Imperials themselves, she had decided that Skyrim belonged to the Nords, and as such should be rid of their influence. They had used them in the Great War, and cowered under the might of the Thalmor. They had handed over their lands, their coin, their influence, their friendship with Hammerfell and Skyrim so the Emperor could keep the crown on his stooped, balding head. Forbade the worship of Talos, the free movement of peoples. They had betrayed a nation for a little more time, a little more life.

And then Ulfric Stormcloak Shouted the High King to pieces. With a Word not even of his own tongue, he had plunged the country she loved into a dark, deep hole, the sides slick and sloping so one could not crawl back out. He had torn a pit, a deep fissure dense with hate and fear. A rift existed in her country, tearing people and friends and cities apart from the inside out – a stagnant, festering wound that was simultaneously being patched up by the crumbling Empire and torn afresh by the rebel Stormcloaks.

Sometimes wounds needed healing. But sometimes a bone must be rebroken to make it stronger. That was something Cato had told her.

Lydia's prejudice had got the better of her, though, and she had been tremendously disappointed in being assigned Housecarl to this short underfed prisoner, this thrall of a dying Empire, a small man who hardly seemed able to lift a sword, let alone her homeland out from the pit that Ulfric made.

But as time wore on, as it does, and as the long days turned to longer nights and autumn gave way to the cold and snow, she saw he was quite capable of handling himself in battle. Most warriors she had met in her day had been large, burly bearded Nords with thick armour and even thicker skulls. Farkas, Cato's Companion friend, was a prime example. And if they weren't Nords then they were elves, dark-skinned and red-eyed and towering over even the heftiest of Nords. Those Imperials, though – Cato himself, and the ones they saw marching down the roads in perfect formation, or spied through the trees as they set up their meticulous camps and forts – were crafty and resourceful. They reminded her of those insects that skirt the surface of the water. Not the biggest bugs there, nor the strongest. But they were quick and clever. Dragonflies, they were. And when a few of them got together, she'd seen them take down frogs and brown thrushes.

No small wonder they had conquered most of the continent.

Whatever it was – Ulfric, the Great War, the cowardice of Cyrodiil herself – the minds of the Nords had been poisoned with the assumption that all Imperials, and in extension all other races, were unworthy and therefore must be removed from their homeland. With force and laws and harsh words, if it came to such pettiness. And so this was why they hadn't visited Windhelm before now. The apex of the anti-Imperial campaign resided here, and both Lydia and Cato knew going inside would only amount to unwanted trouble.

But did her Thane ever listen to her advice?

No. _Of course not._

Anyway. One must go on.

Cato sighed tiredly.

"If I was an Imperial spy do you _really_ think I'd be travelling with a Nord?"

Lydia's stomach churned sourly as the big man glowered her way, rage and something akin to hate sparking fiercely in his icy eyes.

"She could be part of the Legion too. I've seen some Nords in their ranks. Traitorous _bastards,"_ he spat, and she got the creeping feeling this man was harbouring hatred for someone he knew who'd left to join them. Or perhaps revenge for someone taken by them.

People were openly staring at them now. Some had even come full out of their shops to watch the spectacle unfold, lean out of shuttered windows, peer around crumbling corners.

When the pair didn't answer, the man went on.

"Skyrim belongs to the Nords, Imperial. This is _our_ home, _our_ land," he growled, pointing a fat finger at his own chest. Out of the corner of her eye, Lydia spied Cato rolling his eyes the tiniest bit, and she could not blame him, really.

"Wait, wait. Alright, hold on," Cato said, motioning the man to settle down, which seemed to do the exact opposite.

"Don't tell me to hold on, ya –"

"Please, mister…?"

The man stared at him angrily, dumbly.

"Your name…?"

"None of yer fuckin' business, that's me name."

Cato's jaw clenched a little. "Alright, Mr. None-of-yer-Fuckin-Business. Look, I didn't come here today to be lectured. _Again._ I've heard this all before. I know where this is headed: down a long, tedious road of arguing back and forth before I eventually tire of trying to break through your _enormously_ thick skull and you throw a punch and I throw one back and we both leave with our heads and prides wounded. I'm tired and hungry and this godforsaken cold is biting me right to the assbone, and you look like you need another ale, so for _just fucking once,_ can we _please_ not do this?"

Lydia had watched with a strange mix of amusement and fear as the fat Nord's face had turned redder and redder and as his fists had clenched tighter and tighter.

"You _fuckin' scib!_ You don't get ta come inta _my_ country, _my_ city and tell me what I can and can't do! So yer gonna stand there an' listen to what I have ta say!"

Cato's lips thinned like he really hadn't been expecting the man to simply walk away. But Lydia could not blame him for trying.

"All we want is to worship Talos in peace. We helped ya win the Great War. We were allies once – _friends_ even! We sacrificed _our_ lives for _your_ goddamned war with those fuckin' rabbits. We helped _you_ push the knife-ears out the Empire, and _we_ were the ones you came runnin' to." He stopped pacing and turned to face them. His deep voice was raising and he pointed an accusing finger at the Imperial. The market was deathly silent as all eyes were now on the three in the centre.

"And what thanks do we get? None! Not _one fuckin'_ thank you! We ain't even allowed ta worship our own God! You Imperial bootlickers ran from the elves with your tail between yer legs! Ya should 'ave stayed and fought for your home! A true warrior wouldn't 'ave cowered behind some bullshit _treaty!"_ He was shouting now, and a few of the more active city guards had made their way over to see what the commotion was about.

Whispers and murmurs ran through the crowd, and a few people dared to yell out _"here, here_!" or _"Imperial bastard!"_

Lydia felt red anger simmering just beneath her skin, her face turning hot and prickly, tears borne of pure rage threatening to spill out onto her cheeks.

"What, you just gonna stand there like a fuckin' dunce? Say somethin'! _Say somethin'!"_

Cato watched the fat man inexpressively. This only angered him more.

He growled a feral, violent growl and walked right up to Cato, staring down at him, their noses nearly touching. The Nord was sweaty and smelly and trembling with barely-concealed hate. He poked Cato in the chest rather hard, enough to make him sway a little.

"You're _weak,_ Imperial."

Hot rage spiked through Lydia's body once again, and she made to push the man away, but Cato touched her hand lightly, softly, a warning, stopping her where she stood without eye contact or a single word.

He cleared his throat and straightened up, but even so he only reached the Nord's thick beard.

"Listen. Imperials aren't your enemy, friend. The Thalmor are."

"Don't call me friend, you _bastard,"_ the Nord spit at him, eyes flashing dangerously.

Cato winced and ignored the spittle that landed on his cheek. "Look, I'm not defending the Empire or my people. I know what they did was wrong."

"The first bit o' truth ya've said all day."

"They didn't want to outlaw Talos's worship. It was the elves. I'm not saying they –"

The Nord stepped back and let out a booming, throaty laugh, eyes roaming the people gathered in the square.

"Ha! See? The coward blames it all on the elves!" His fiery eyes shot back to Cato and he pointed at him again. "Take some responsibility, you gutless son of a _bitch!"_

Cato's fingers, still brushing the top of her own hand, were the only things stopping her from swiftly ending the fat Nord's rant with a powerful fist to his ugly face.

"The Empire is _not_ the ones executing Talos worshipers! The _Thalmor_ are! You can't say –"

"Ah, 'ere he goes again with the damned rabbits!" He threw his hands in the air and stepped back again. "Yes, man, we _know_ they're the ones who began the war _you_ should 'ave finished. But ya came cryin' to the Nords when ya got scared your fancy words and coin wouldn't save ya! If it wasn't for us, yer ma and da wouldn't 'ave had the pleasure to _fuck_ each other senseless like the filthy rats they are and _you_ wouldn't even be here now. _In my damn country._ Real shame, that. Maybe we _should_ 'ave let the City fall. Might save us from wasting our goods and coin on yer bony ass!"

Lydia's anger was simply boiling inside her now. This braggart was getting too worked up and had started throwing out personal insults. It was one thing to argue, yes, and another to prove a point, but it was low to stoop to the level of petty schoolchildren. He was pacing around the circle, eyebrows furrowed and hands wrung together.

" _'The Empire's not executing Talos worshipers'_ ", the Nord quoted in a sadistic voice. "Ha! That's a good one! And _who_ serves the Thalmor willingly?"

Cato swallowed but remained firm. "Fear of punishment and genocide isn't _willingly."_

"Why, then, in the name of Talos, did ya bastards start _a fuckin' war with them?!"_ he roared.

"We didn't _start –"_

"Declaring war on the elves is considered _not_ starting a war? _That's_ a new one! I'll 'ave to remember it!"

"We weren't going to let them take the Province without a fight! They tried –"

"Oh, don't even start that, Provincial! I said this before! Ya should 'ave stayed and fought for yer home if it meant anythin' to ya! If you fuckin' bootlickers took the knife-ears' _dicks_ out yer mouth for even a second then ya'd see that for yerself!"

"The Empire _had_ to stop! Too many men were dying! We –"

"How many? How many rabbit dicks did ya have ta suck before they let ya off with a warnin' and a letter sayin' us Nords can't even worship our own gods? How many?"

"We –"

" _How many?!"_

"We wanted to prevent another war!"

"Oh, yeah, you sure did a good job not startin' any more wars!" Some of the people in the crowd laughed and murmurs of agreement rolled through, and so did words like _civil war_ and _Ulfric_ and _Talos._ The Nord laughed along with them.

Lydia felt a thousand little darts of anger and fury and hate prickle across her skin, and she felt her stomach churn hotly and could taste a dry sort of bitterness in her mouth. But through it all she felt a pang of pity for Cato, all alone in the dirty streets, being stared at and judged and hated simply because of where he was born and the colour of his skin.

It was not fair. This Nord didn't know him. The people here didn't know him. They only chose to see how short he was, how his hair was not blond and how his eyes were not blue. They could not see past the surface of his burnished skin. Did they see him buy a flower from the street girl by the gates? Did they know he sometimes left some coins by Carlotta's fruit stall when she wasn't looking? Had they seen him sneak some dried meat to Adrienne's beaten hound every time he passed the bellows? Did they know of all the lives he'd saved, the dragons he'd killed? _For them?_

It made her both furious and heartbroken that they didn't, and even more livid that if they did, they wouldn't have cared.

Lydia sensed the argument was nearing its close. She was right.

"I'm done wastin' my time here on yer worthless hide. Yer kind don't belong here. If ya have even an ounce of courage in ya then _fight me!"_

Lydia's attention snapped to. She was as still as a statue, on the outside, but inside she was roiling.

Cato shook his head and raised his hands again. "I told you, I'm not looking for trouble."

 _"Coward!"_ the Nord screeched. "You were lookin' for it the second ya stepped through those gates!"

"Look, I don't want to fight you. Let's just go our separate ways and –"

"I'm not one of yer kind! When something matters to me I stay and see it through!"

"This _doesn't_ matter to me! I don't care that you hate the Legion or the Empire or whatever. I _wasn't_ in the War and I _didn't_ sign the treaty!"

"No, ya worthless _scrib,_ it's not them I hate. I just _really_ don't like you." His voice was dangerously low and he was inching closer and closer, making the two of them keep a safe distance. "So come on. Fight me. I'll show ya how a true son of Skyrim fights."

The man had nearly cornered them up against a stone wall.

Lydia tugged at Cato's sleeve, trying to tell him to leave. He got the hint.

"I'm sorry. I'm not going to fight you."

The Nord gave a savage snarl and in two steps was close enough to give the Imperial a hard push back with both of his massive hands. Cato hadn't been expecting it and was winded painfully as his back crushed against the wall, a thin little yelp whooshing from his lips as he did.

Lydia simply could not help it. She saw red. Burning, flickering red, like dragon-flame. One moment she had been beside her Thane, quivering in anger, and the next she had heaved all her strength behind a massive push back at the ugly, sweaty Nord. He must not been expecting it either, as he stumbled a few steps back and surprise lit up his grimy face.

He smiled though, crooked yellow teeth complementing his stained shirt. "Ha! Now _here's_ a true Nord!" He pointed at the enraged woman, and looking back to Cato he snarled, "come on, Imperial. Are ya gonna let yer _woman_ do all yer fightin'?"

Cato glared at him, a little hurt and breathless, and then he turned his gaze to Lydia. One look of his sharp eyes told her she should not have pushed the Nord back. It had only fueled his fire.

She stepped back from the Nord, head low and face red with shame and anger, and together Cato and Lydia made to leave.

The Nord wasn't going to let them get away that easily. With a guttural _"oh, no you don't,"_ he seized the Imperial's arm and swung him around off his feet. He tossed him, like a child's rag doll, back into the middle of the plaza and he landed with a hard, dull thud into the dirty snow on his back.

It all happened so quickly, so swiftly that neither had anticipated it, and Lydia froze sharply in place from the inside out.

The Nord walked up to Cato, who was looking up at him with white shock and a little fear in his eyes from the sooty cobbles. The fat Nord kicked some snow with his boot and it landed on the body of the fallen man, on Cato's leathered chest.

"Come on, milk-drinker. _Fight!"_

A deathly quiet settled upon the market square as everyone watched, breathless, waiting to see if he really would.

Well. Cato was not one to disappoint.

So he stood up and threw the first punch.

The crowd simply came alive, cheered and jeered, booed and howled as the giant man and the small man took out their anger on each other.

A heavy, sluggish side-wallop from the Nord. A swift feint by the Imperial. Quick sidesteps, hefty lurches, angry, desperate growls. Cato was much more agile than the hulk of a man, and he managed to easily dodge most of his massive leaden swings. He was able to get more hits in, sharp jabs in the ribs or the gut, but they just didn't have the force behind them that the Nord had. It seemed the two were evenly matched. An awkward sort of dance, both dainty and cumbersome, quick and slow, giving and taking in somewhat equal measures.

"Come on, ya faithless coward!" the Nord cried out between swings of his meaty fists. Cato swooped low, swiftly skirting the danger, and jabbed once, twice, three times into the fat gut of his opponent. The Nord flicked him away as if he was merely an irritating fly. "That it? That all ya got? Fuckin' _pathetic."_

Lydia had not moved from where the Nord had ripped Cato from her side, though she didn't think she could even if she wanted to. Where would she go? Melt into the crowd of jeering bystanders? What would she do? Step in, get a bloody nose, maybe, make her Thane look the fool? So she did neither, and just stood there watching in awe and utter horror. This was not a deadly fight, not yet, and despite everything, she knew that, by honour and tradition, they needed to finish it themselves.

That didn't make it any easier, though, as she watched Cato take a particularly hard swing to the side of the head. The force made his teeth snap together and his skull whip sharply to the side. He faltered, fell to one knee, shook his head painfully and tried to rid himself of the stars that swam in his vision.

 _"Cato!"_ Lydia yelped in a strangled voice, her heart dropping through her stomach, and the Nord managed to pluck it out of the cheering and din.

"Cato, is it?" he growled with a nasty smile on his face. He lowered his voice so only the two of them could hear and he bent down, face to face with the Imperial who was bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow and from his mouth, teeth stained pink. _"Cato._ Is that what she cries out to ya at night? _Cato?_ She could do so much better than you."

The Nord took advantage of this momentary daze and grabbed the Imperial by the shoulders, hoisting him up, about to throw him to the ground and end the fight. He was taken by surprise, though, when Cato darted a foot behind his own and pushed back. The Nord could not keep his massive bulk in balance and toppled backwards, dragging Cato with him.

He landed with a heavy thud flat on his back in the snow, clutching the smaller man to his chest. The cheering abruptly halted as they slowly began to fathom that the Imperial, against all odds and popular opinion, had won.

The Nord's eyes widened in shock and horror and disgust and he flung Cato off him forcefully. He scrambled to his feet and watched the Nord slowly get up on his.

The two stared at each other a moment, the snow falling between them softly, the market square so deathly chill and silent it was more akin to a graveyard than a city common.

Cato spit a bloody wad on the ground, pink staining the dirty snow, and wiped it from his mouth, out of his eyes. Then, without any sort of acknowledgement, turned and left without a word.

Bitter, frozen, a little shocked that he won, and more than a little dazed from that last hit, Cato ignored the murmurs and stares as he let Lydia guide him out of there, head down, fists clenched through the snowy streets and sidealleys, past crumbling walls and the derelict bones of ancient houses. A welcome rush of warm air hit him as the great wooden doors of Candlehearth Hall were thrust open. Up the peeling steps, through the tables and fires and even more murmurs, back into their rented room. Peace and quiet and warm, a soft bed beneath him and a steep roof over his head, and no one there to stare.

Lydia would have sworn he now had some head damage. He stared at the bowl of soup she had brought him from the innkeeper like it was a dog with three heads. He glanced up to her, confused, lost, like a small child. Her heart throbbed sadly. "Here. Eat this," she said, taking his hand and placing it on the bowl.

"Yeah. Right. Of course," he murmured, taking it from her. He sat on the edge of the bed and practically inhaled it. He must not have realised how hungry he was. Adrenaline had a nasty way of making you forget things like that.

It was old and bland and he could taste blood in his mouth still, but he ate it anyway. When he was done he looked up at his Housecarl. She was watching him with silent concern from the chair across the room, her face dark in the light of the dying fire.

"How bad is it?" he asked, not really wanting to know the answer. She frowned, didn't say anything. Then she slowly rose from the chair and came to sit beside him on the bed. She had with her a wooden bowl of warm water and an old rag. He vaguely wondered where she had got it but found he didn't care. He closed his eyes as she dabbed the warm cloth across the cut above his brow.

"Not too bad. This cut is the worst, though you'll have a nice bruised jaw for a while."

"Will it scar, do you think?"

"Perhaps. Add to your collection," she smiled in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. His watery smile back was a clear enough message. He wasn't in the mood. Which made her heart break a little more. Cato was _always_ in the mood for some snark or a joke. "How's your mouth?"

He felt around with his tongue, wincing a little. "There's a cut on my cheek. It stings."

"Well. Not much I can do about that, I'm afraid."

He let her clean his face in silence. He knew she was comforting him because he'd received worse injuries in the past and she'd merely clapped his back and told him to move on, grow up, throw some dirt in it. That, or she'd let slip a few sarcastic jibes under her breath. Not like Lydia, to care about him like this. But he didn't care. He let her anyway. The warmth from the cloth felt good against his aching skin.

She washed out his cut and gently dabbed at the corner of his mouth where a nasty bruise was forming. She used her hand to push back his short hair and clean at another, smaller cut on his forehead. Her hands were not smooth, but rough. Scarred. The hands of a warrior. Able to both swiftly ends lives and yet carefully dress wounds. He didn't care. They were warm and felt nice. Her hands and the cloth and the warm meal in his stomach as well as the adrenaline ebbing away from his body like the low tide nearly put him to sleep. But he needed to ask her something first.

"Do you believe what the Nord said?" He wasn't convinced he was completely out of his daze when he asked that. And he didn't know if he was talking about Imperials or what the man said about Lydia. About her and him.

He opened his tired eyes as he felt her remove the cloth and drop it in the water bowl.

Her face was blank but he could see guilt and anger there, in her eyes. She had pretty eyes. Not blue, like the cold blue most of the Nords had, like ice found on the edge of the sea. Just brown. Like his, almost. Warm.

"I did once. Not anymore." She couldn't look him in the eye.

He smiled at her. He knew what she thought of him and his kind when they first met. "That's all I care about," he said, and he took her hand in his.

There were so many things she could have said to him then. She wanted to say what the Nord said wasn't true. That he shouldn't listen to the lies and the slurs and smears. That the Empire did what they had to do, despite everything that came after, and he shouldn't be blamed for what happened before he was even born. That he was stronger and braver and kinder than any Nord she'd ever met, in more ways than one. That she cared about him so much.

That last thought stunned her, sent a spark through her heart, and she realised swiftly that she really _did_ care for him. Like a good friend, like a brother, a partner. Friendship did not come easily to Lydia but she had found it nevertheless. Here, in this man from another country, another world, against all odds and gods and great black dragons. And she'd be damned to let it slip past her fingers this time.

But she was never good with words, and neither was he – well, not with stuff like this – so she squeezed his hand and put her remaining arm around him into an embrace that said all what she wanted to say and even more.

* * *

**A/N: So I took some artistic licence here and decided that Hrongar, who is Jarl Balgruuf's brother and Housecarl, is also Lydia's father. So that would make Balgruuf her uncle. I decided it worked because why else would she be allowed to train for and accept the second highest position in the military (after Housecarl to the Jarl)? Her uncle would give her a foot in the door. And unlike today and in our own world (and elsewhere in Tamriel), being related to someone of high authority and power would not grant you any titles or admiration or fame. You'd have to earn it the hard way.**

**Also in the game Hrongar is very anti-Stormcloak. I made him anti-Legion here because it just works better with the story.**

**And when fighting, one person wins when the other verbally yields or is thrown onto their back. Hence the Elder Scrolls insult _snow-back._**

**_Rabbits_ and _knife-ears_ are insulting names for elves, of course.**

**As well, I realise that not all of you are gigantic Elder Scrolls nerds and may not know exactly what the Nord was talking about. If you're confused, here's a very brief explanation: He is talking about the Great War and how the Nords helped push the Aldmeri Dominion (Thalmor) from Cyrodiil, maybe 30ish years before the Dragonborn was taken to Helgen. The Empire managed to win, but just barely, and the White Gold Concordat was signed which ceded Hammerfell as an Aldmeri province rather than part of the Empire, and which also banned the worship of Talos throughout all provinces under the Empire's control, including Skyrim. The Nords felt betrayed by their Emperor and some, like Ulfric Stormcloak, wished to break free of his control. This is what starts the civil war in the game.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello again readers! Here is chapter 4! Pretty similar to the original fourth chapter, again. From here on out, however, the chapters will get jumbled and be quite different.**

**Anyways. Thanks for all the new kudos!**

**As always, enjoy, and drop a review if you'd like. It would mean a lot if you did!**

* * *

Lydia _hated_ dragons.

No, really. She _absolutely despised_ them.

They were monstrously terrifying creatures, made of the darkest stuff of nightmares whose only purpose, it seemed, was to destroy and slaughter and burn their way through the world of men and mer. They weren't good for anything. Well, perhaps only for their bones and scales. They could fetch a good price. But even so her Thane made her drag them around until they found a merchant willing to buy them. They were _so_ heavy.

She'd only ever seen a few in her lifetime, despite being the now-renowned partner to the Dragonborn. She could easily count the number of times she'd been close enough to make out their features, and the number of times they'd _actually_ killed one was even fewer.

Eight. That was it.

It wasn't borne of fear or dread, and they never ran from a fight. Lydia was a Nord – proud and strong, born and bred in the cold mountains of the north – and that was _never_ something they did, despite the fire and the death and the carnage those beasts of legend left in their wake.

It was the beasts themselves.

Lydia had seen the great dragons as they soared high above, waking up after long years of sleep, moving from one mountain cave to the next with a near-hypnotic slowness and resolve. She had seen them swoop low and raze an entire herd of elk to the ground in a blinding flash of calculated fire. She had watched them as they watched her, perched on a crumbling ruin not far from the mountain-pass as the travellers made their way. Everything they did seemed to be done with purpose, and power, and no small amount of wisdom – not so unlike herself, like others, she thought. There was thinking, and discovering, and _ideas_ behind their eyes. They were animals, they were beasts, but they were also more than that. And that, perhaps, is what unnerved her the most.

Yes, Lydia hated them. And in particular fighting them, for they always drained the energy and strength of them both. It was not easy to kill a dragon, you can imagine. Lydia and Cato never walked away from a battle without a few burns and cuts and stories to tell. And though her friend would always give an exultant whoop at the very end, beaten and breathless and bloodied, and even when they shared a fierce grin fueled by the flames of dragon-fire and peril, she could tell there was… something else. She wasn't really sure, and she couldn't well tell you if she tried, but it was there.

It was seen in the way he staggered and grimaced in pain as the soul of the monster bound itself unto his own. It was how, for a moment, it seemed his bright brown eyes would flash a striking yellow, and a fire all their own would burn within. It was his contemplating silence that night, and how he sat, unmoving and unyielding, staring into the orange flames at camp, as though finding there stories and knowledge unseen to all.

So even though she hated the dragons for what they were and how they killed, and the terrifying glimpses of understanding in their eyes, the damage they did to her Thane was worse than all of that together.

And so this dragon would be their ninth.

* * *

"Left! Left! Lydia! Go _left!"_ Cato cried out, frantically waving his arm at her. She saw him and nodded, breathing deeply and gripping her sword before sprinting to the dragon's side.

The air smelled of blood and burning wood and that foul reek that only a dragon could claim as its own. She soared over blackened logs and across the scorched grasses, eyes never leaving the rippling scaly hide of the enraged dragon. It was thrashing about, and in its rage was splintering the trunks of trees that had stood here, in the ageless forests of the Rift, for years untold like little twigs with its massive tail and sabred claws.

Cato had managed to slice through the thin, papery membrane of its right wing as it landed for a terrestrial attack, rendering it unable to fly. But just because it _couldn't_ didn't mean it hadn't tried. The Housecarl had nearly been blown off her feet by the gusts the beast made with its ruined wings in a desperate vie to get off the ground. The dust and ash it kicked up nearly blinded her, and she had to stop a moment and rub her watery eyes as she coughed. The heat coming from the beast was nearly unbearable. It parched her throat, made her sweat, form a thin pasty layer of ash and sweat on her skin, and she could see the invisible waves of it emanating from the golden scales. She blinked and then was on her way again, ducking to avoid the swings of its tail and the flying shards of wood.

Lydia and her Thane had a rough strategy when it came to defeating dragons. They would shoot arrows at it into the sky, taking cover behind rocks and hills, before it was enraged enough to come in for a ground attack. Then the two would spring up from their cover and attempt to sever the ties between it and the sky. They'd slash at the wings until it could no longer lift its massive body from the ground. Remove its flight and the battle was nearly won. A downed dragon is a dead dragon.

But a downed dragon is, in Cato's articulate words, _a bloody pissed-off lizard._ If one thinks they are terrifying in the sky, they have not seen one on the ground, cornered, with no way out but through.

So these were perhaps the most dangerous moments in dealing with a dragon. The orange beast was blind with pure boiling rage and it was thrashing its weakening body around the scorched clearing it had made. Right now it wanted nothing more than to end the Shouting match and stamp the Imperial man flat into the dusty ground, and if Lydia didn't hurry up, it just might.

Cato was weakening as well. He was dodging the blows of the animal's clawed fists into the dirt and its massive snapping jaws, all while skirting the absolutely sweltering heat of dragon fire thrust forth from the foul mouth of the utterly livid beast. He was doing alright, but she could see, across the clearing between the bleeding legs of the dragon, that he was getting tired. The fire was missing him more narrowly and the jabs of his ebony sword were not as deep. She needed to hurry.

And so, head throbbing and heart thrashing, with a harsh cry and barely a moments thought, she tore towards the dragon and thrust her Skyforge greatsword through the thick hide and into the flank of the beast, right to the hilt. The scales cracked as she did so, splintering off in sparkly chunks, and the golden dragon threw its massive head back and roared so loud and so furiously she was certain everyone in the Rift could hear it.

Lydia let go of her sword, leaving it buried deep inside the dragon, and leaped back. Heart pounding, she took off and sprinted into the trees at the edge of the clearing just before the dragon, lashing and coiling in its white-hot agony, turned and blew a blistering stream of fire where she had been standing only seconds before. She peered from behind a blackened pine and watched, as she always did, in awe as Cato killed the dragon at last.

Lydia had been the distraction he'd needed, and as the dragon was preoccupied by the sharp bite of the greatsword, he'd taken what little time he had to steel his will, fill his lungs, and leap onto the unsuspecting head of the brute. His sweating hands grasped onto the sharp ivory horns protruding from the skull of the animal, and it took everything he had to stabilise himself against the beast's thrashing. It roared and shook its head roughly, and Lydia gasped as Cato was nearly thrown off.

He still had a tight hold on one horn, but he was dangling from the side of the dragon's head, weapon arm with his dark sword swinging about. The dragon tilted its head to the side, fiery yellow eyes burning with hatred, its mouth open, bloodied and rancid and so, so hot. The world slowed and Lydia's blood ran cold as ice when she realised the dragon would have her Thane in its massive jaws any second now.

But Cato was quicker than the wounded lumbering giant. He used the open maw as a step to leap onto the head again, and in a fraction of a second, before the beast even knew what was happening, he had stood up, positioned the black sword, and, with all the remaining might of his arm, thrust it into the neck of the dragon, right at the base of the skull.

The dragon felt its death-pang and screamed, heaving its bulk up onto its hind legs, thrusting its head to the heavens. Cato could no longer hold on and was thrown to the ground, landing on his side painfully. In a last desperate attempt at escape, the dragon flapped its torn and bloody wings, kicking up even more dust and ash and little swirling embers into the sweltering sky. It was a terrifying but beautiful sight, Lydia thought. Something straight out of legend, something Farengar back at Dragonsreach would write about. But it didn't last long, and with one final earth-shattering roar the dragon faltered and crashed to the earth, sending Cato darting out of the way to avoid its crushing mass.

It was over.

An eerie silence filled the clearing, and the Dragonborn stood up slowly as the dust settled. Smoke hissed from the blackened logs and burnt grasses. Airborne cinders and flakes of ash, now falling softly like snow onto the dragon and the slayer, gave the world a muffled, ghostly glow.

Lydia waited for the flesh to melt and the soul to swirl, but it never came. The dragon was still alive.

She was not close enough to the Dov to see them look into each others eyes, but they did. Tired, triumphant bright brown ones gazed down into those tired, defeated striking yellow ones. Neither moved, and they simply looked at each other.

Eventually Lydia stepped gingerly from behind the scorched pine, and she cautiously made her way over to them, creeping over slivers of wood and pockets of hissing slag. She stopped, though, when Cato stepped closer to the beast and bent down on one knee. He placed a bloodied, bruised hand on the golden snout and listened to the dragon as it spoke.

 _"Dovahkiin los dii dovahkriid, ruz,"_ the beast guttered in a deep voice, older and slower than time, wiser than any wizard. Lydia froze. She'd never heard a dragon speak before. Not unless it was Shouting fire or ice at her. _"Hin mul, Dovahkiin. Hin krif voth ahkrin. Zu'u sahlo. Fahofan Dovah."_

Cato shook his head, eyes closed. "Nid, Dovah. Ni los dii Paak." His voice was rough, throat raw from the power of the Shouts, and the words he spoke were foreign and softer but just as deep and old as any dragon. Lydia blinked. Her Thane could _speak dragon?_

Cato's eyes opened again. "Hin Tivaak?"

The dragon grumbled lightly, and it seemed to Lydia it was a friendly sound. _"Nust Tivaak Yolyuvonmaar. Nii los ni vahzah, nii koraav."_ The dragon grumbled again, the sound rumbling deep within the dying beast.

The Imperial smiled and shook his head again. "Nid, Yolyuvonmaar. Hin mul. Fahofan Dovahkiin."

The dragon took a deep breath and sighed. _"Zu'u bo nol daar Gol, zeymah. Zu'u fen aav Dovahkiin nu."_ Cato's smile fell. _"Tiiraaz mu nis lahney drem."_

Cato nodded once and he smiled again, sadly. "Osossul. Aus nid lingrah, Yolyuvonmaar."

With a final shudder the dragon released its last breath. The scales dissolved and the flesh melted. The soul of the golden dragon filled the desolate clearing with a glow the same colour as fire, but somehow softer and warmer. It twisted around Cato's body, swirling round his limbs and head and crushing into his chest, and he winced as it entered him. He fell to both knees and pressed his palms to his eyes, blocking out the obvious pain he was in. His temples bulged and he groaned, clenching his jaw, spasm after spasm rippling through his body, only slowing down when the last shred of papery light disappeared.

When it was over, and the Dragonborn was kneeling in front of a skeleton, hands lowered now, panting, Lydia shook herself from her daze and slowly crept over to him, boots crunching the coals and ashes of the dragon's wrath.

She stopped when she was within arms reach, hesitating, not sure what to do. His eyes were closed.

"Cato?" she asked tentatively. Her quiet voice seemed unfit for this place that had seen such ruin and fire.

He didn't answer, and it seemed as though he hadn't even heard her.

"Grik Paak." He shook his head, eyes still closed. "Such a shame."

"Cato, are you alright?" she asked worriedly. She didn't know what he was saying, and she wanted to get them out of here. They needed rest and something to eat.

He opened his eyes and turned his head up to look at her. His eyes were full of sorrow, and he was covered in grime and sweat and dragon blood. "I'm fine."

Lydia held out her hand to him, and he took it. His own hand was burning hot, covered in ash and blood, and she let go maybe a bit too quickly as he stood up.

There was no triumphant laughter or devious grin like all their battles before. The scorched clearing was silent as the Dragonborn looked down onto the bones of the defeated dragon. The only sounds to be heard were the hissing and crackling of charred trees.

"We should go." Lydia felt useless standing there beside him, doing nothing. She turned around to find their packs and extra weapons hidden between the trees.

She returned, having found them safely and in good condition, to her Thane still standing there.

"Are you okay?" she asked again.

He frowned down at the dragon.

"Cato?"

"Hm? Yeah. I'm fine."

She did not believe him in the slightest. "We should go," she said again, more forcefully this time, glancing up into the sky. It was darkening, and in a few hours night would be upon them, shining the cold stars of winter upon the world.

An icy wind blew through the clearing, reminding her that it was winter and it was cold, despite the intense heat that was here. She shivered and shouldered her pack, and her Thane's, and reached down to yank his ebony sword from the skull of the beast. It was a beautiful weapon, black as night, sharp as ice, and he'd picked it off some dead bandit long ago. It was his favoured weapon. But it was covered in dragon blood, and so was he. They needed to leave.

So she grabbed his arm lightly and pulled him away from that place. He didn't protest as she led him out of the scorched clearing and into the darkening woods. It smelled better here, of pine needles and snow and fresh clean air, and it was not long before the slivers of Masser and Secunda could be spotted through the canopy.

She led him north through the woods and they walked in silence for hours, or what felt like hours, not stopping until the twinkling fires of Riften were shimmering between the trees and on the surface of the moonlit lake.

She decided against camping outside tonight, seeing as her Thane needed a good meal, a good rest, and a warm bath to clear his mind and body of blood.

The guards at the gates gave them no trouble, remembering the time Cato had threatened them with an apple and a sharp knife and shown them what he could do with it. And Keerava at the Bee and Barb was more than accommodating, giving them the largest room she had and sending Talen-Jei off to warm some water for a bath.

She paid the Argonian and shut the door, sighing contentedly as she leaned against it.

The room was large, the largest one here, and it had a big bed to the right and a wardrobe and dresser to the left against the wall. A fire was burning low in the hearth at the far end. It was a nice room, and she knew the innkeeper had given them a good deal.

Cato was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at her.

"Thanks." It was the first thing he'd said to her since the clearing.

She smiled. "No worries." She frowned a bit, however, and added, "you know, you shouldn't be sitting on the bed in that armour." He looked down at himself. "You're going to get blood and dirt on the sheets and I'm not paying for that."

He laughed then, and she smiled again. She never liked seeing him like this. Remote and cold. He was her friend, her partner, and he was always warm and close.

"Oh, so it's _your_ money now, is it?" He raised an eyebrow at her, and she moved from the door to kneel by his pack. She was glad he was feeling better.

"Well, it might as well be. You're not capable of managing your gold." She rummaged around in his sack, pulling out a simple clean shirt. "You'd bet the whole town guard a month's earnings you could fly if given the chance."

He laughed again. "Yeah, probably."

It was true. He would spend his money on the most ridiculous items he could, and for no apparent reason other than he had the coin. It was almost as if he'd never had any before, like a child in a sweet shop. So she'd taken it upon herself to deal with the Septims and ration out their earnings. It was strange, sure, but her Thane was strange – maybe she was a bit, too – and it was just a part of who he was. Who they both were.

She pulled out some clean pants and stood up to face him again.

"Here." She handed him the clothes and he reached out for them. "Take off your armour and get in the bath when its ready."

He raised an eyebrow suggestively and a little grin slid onto his face.

She rolled her eyes. Well, as long as he wasn't moping about tonight she didn't care.

"Just do it, Cato."

His grin widened and he stood up, tossing the clean clothes on the bed. "Hm. Been a while since I was propositioned so."

"Is that right?" she smiled, feeling her cheeks burning up a little.

"You know, if you wanted me so bad you could have just asked."

"Well, I'm glad you're feeling better. But really, _my Thane,_ is it your goal in life to make every situation an awkward and uncomfortable one?"

He started unlacing the grimy leather armour from his body, letting it fall piece by piece onto the wooden floor. "Well, no. It's actually to save the world from Alduin, the World-Eater, Nordic God of Death and Destruction. This is just a side-quest."

"I see."

She took this time to do the same, though her steel armour had simple clasps instead of strings and she found herself waiting for him to finish.

She watched him as he took it all off, piece by piece. His bracers, his greaves, his pauldrons. His fingers were quick, agile, practiced. She'd never seen someone take off their armour so easily. It had always fascinated her.

"Shit," he said, holding up one of his knee-cops, inspecting it. "Nearly melted right through. Guess we'll have to pay a visit to dear old Balimund at the forge. You know how much he _loves_ seeing my face," he smirked, eyes flashing up at her.

Lydia's stomach pitched, and she found her cheeks burning up again. She smiled sheepishly, foolishly, and she found herself warming at his smile. _Liking_ his smile. Because he had a nice one, because it meant he was alright, now. Because it was for her.

The logical part of her was quick to slash her down.

 _No,_ it said. _He is your Thane. Your ward, your friend, your partner. Nothing more._

And that was true. She'd taken the oath herself.

 _But that doesn't mean I can't think him nice to look at,_ the less logical part of her whispered.

Which was also true.

And Cato was not hard on the eyes.

He was modest when stood beside a Nord, neither as tall nor as built, and his hair was darker and shorter and so was his skin, tanned olive from the sun and the Provincial blood in his veins. Less scars, less muscle, less jaw. No beard, no braids, no _anything_ that would make him stand out among the other men. But his face was kind, and his eyes were kinder. His smile softer and common. He was different in every way, she supposed, and yet everything that needed to be there _was,_ even if others could not see it.

But Lydia could. And she liked it. All of it. Well, _most_ of it. His tongue was a bit too sharp for his own good, really, and his head tended to wander too high in the clouds sometimes.

His flash of a smile was nice, no doubt, but it was nicer because of the man behind it.

"What?" he asked, with only a little concern.

Lydia blinked. "What _what?"_

"You're staring at me."

Lydia's heart dropped. "No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

" _No,_ I'm not.

" _Yes,_ you are. You feeling alright?"

"I'm fine."

The look he cast her clearly said he didn't believe her. "Alright. If you say so. Here, help me get this off."

He turned around, all armour off now save the leather breastplate. It was laced at the back and required another's help. She went over to him, her own fingers used to the movements by now, but still clumsier than his.

When she was done it fell to the floor with the rest and he turned around, smiling. "Ahh. Thanks. Much better. I can finally breathe, now." He wore a simple chemise under his armour to stop it from chaffing, but it was dirty and probably smelled bad. She didn't want to get too close. For multiple reasons.

He flopped backwards onto the bed then, surprising Lydia. "Aaaahhh hahaha!" He groaned and laughed with child-like glee as he writhed on top of the roughly sewn quilt and the extra furs. "Lydia, by the Eight! It's been _way_ too long since I've slept in a proper bed. Nearly forgot what they looked like."

She smiled at his childish antics, but she found herself wanting to do the same.

"Cato, get off!" She scolded, laughing lightly. He lifted his head to look at her, a big stupid smile plastered on his face. "Your shirt is dirtier than your armour."

He laid his head back down, completely ignoring her, and he pulled a bit of the quilt up to his face. He breathed it in, closing his eyes, and smiled again.

"Lydia," he chuckled, looking back up. "It doesn't smell like dirt or smoke! Or bandit piss, at that." He was referring to their own bedrolls they used in the wilds, of course. Smelled like a dying horker on the best of days.

She shook her head at him, crossing her arms. "You are very odd, my Thane."

 _"Cato._ No, really. Come and smell them."

She sighed but obeyed him, and walked over to the side of the bed. Lifting a soft white fox fur to her nose, she breathed it in. He was right. They _did_ smell really good, like soap and herbs and just plain _clean._ He was watching her with interest, propped up on his elbow, and he tried, and failed, to look serious as she dropped the fur, raising his eyebrows as if asking for confirmation.

She nodded. "Very nice," she said, earning a smirk. "I'll be loathe to let you sleep there tonight."

"Me? No. I'll be the man here. I'll sleep on the floor this time."

"No you won't. You need your rest, Cato."

"And you don't?"

Lydia hesitated. The bed was soft and warm, and it had been quite a while since she'd last slept in one. And it _did_ smell really good.

She didn't answer, and he didn't say anything. But the question hung there in the air between them, unspoken, heavy, and so painfully obvious it nearly hurt.

_Should we share the bed?_

The bed was large, large enough for two, certainly, and it would be better if they both got a good night's rest.

Cato was her friend, and they'd been fighting together for a good couple of months, now. They slept beside each other in the tent, in safer lands, and in separate bedrolls. They watched each other's backs, saved each other's lives. She'd followed him down more than one crypt, into the flaming jaws of more than one dragon. But this? Were they ready to share?

Lydia just so happened to look down at him the same moment he looked up at her. They made eye contact, only for a few seconds, but it was enough to make Lydia's stomach flop again and Cato's face to flush. Hard to see sometimes on his darker skin, but Lydia could tell, now, when it happened.

An awkward, hefty silence filled the room and she was about to say something, _anything,_ when a knock at the door followed by the gravelly voice of an Argonian informed them their bath was prepared.

"You go first," she told him, breaking the tense silence.

"Yeah. Okay," he agreed as he sat up on the bed. He grabbed the clean clothes and stood up, walking towards the door. He stopped before he left, and looked back to her. "I won't be long."

"That's alright. I'll get some food."

He nodded and left her standing there in a slushy, churning mess of emotions and musings and… _feelings._

Lydia didn't _have those. Ever._

"Mrrm. _Cato,"_ she groaned in frustration, falling back onto the bed like he had done. It was warm from his body and she didn't even care that she was dirtying the sheets and that she'd scolded her Thane for it.

' _Imperials are nothing but trouble,'_ her father had said – many, _many_ times – and for once, she was inclined to agree.

Because _trouble_ was all Cato had ever given her. Trouble with dragons, and bandits, and sabre-cats. Trolls and Forsworn and even a giant, once. Trouble with the law, on occasion, and trouble with his sticky fingers – not very often, and only on people who were exceptionally bigoted or rude. But still. Trouble with guards. Trouble with Jarls. Trouble with elves and Nords. Trouble with keeping his mouth shut. A _lot_ of trouble with that.

She sighed. It had been so much easier when she didn't care about him. If this had happened a mere month or two ago, she wouldn't even be thinking about it now.

It seemed like Lydia never did a very good job of making or keeping friends. There had been others that might have become friends, if she'd spent time and effort on the endeavor. But she thought she was fine being alone. She thought she didn't need anyone. Most people, good and caring and true as they were, always seemed to disappoint her, and in the end she found herself simply avoiding their gazes and their attempts. It was easier.

But she'd never met anyone like Cato. He was maddening and stubborn and arrogant at times. He couldn't cook to save his life, and he hated cleaning his armour and weapons, and he always made her carry his junk around. They constantly argued and teased and sometimes wouldn't even talk to each other over the most trivial of reasons. He swore too much, gambled away his coin, earned enemies faster than friends, seemed to make a long, long string of questionable decisions and bad choices. Yes, he was an frustrating human. He was a near-intolerable man. He was _trouble._

But was that _all_ he was to her? Maybe, if she looked close enough, the moments and little things that happened in between those times were the things that endeared him to her.

For one: he always smiled at little stupid things, small forgotten things, like the smell of clean sheets.

And gods but his laugh was wonderful. It rumbled from deep in his chest, and it sounded so genuine, whether he was laughing _at_ her or _with_ her. And he laughed so easily. She didn't know anyone else like that. Other people were more guarded, harder to please, less apt to smile. Especially her kind, and in these hard times. But her Thane, someone who clearly had seen battle more than once, and before she'd ever met him, still laughed with the innocence of youth.

She would never admit it, especially to his face, but he was very clever. He knew things she'd never even dreamed of. Provincials were known to be scholarly, educated, cultured. And they knew it. They had universities and schools above and beyond anything in Skyrim, or High Rock, or even Morrowind. She could lay on her back and listen to him point out constellations in the sky beside her all night long, or go on about the politics of Cyrodiil or the ethics of things while they trudged across the land. She couldn't understand half of what he said, but she liked his voice and his company.

They fought well together, too. She liked her heavy steel armour and her two-handed greatswords while he preferred his lighter leather armour and his little ebony sword and bows. It was strange, she thought, but she would admit that two different fighting styles worked better than similar ones. She played the part of shield, the steadfast warrior taking the brunt of the damage, while he would sweep in a volley of arrows from on high or slice enemies from behind with much more grace than she could ever manage. She protected him, and he watched out for her.

And they had grown to understand each other without having to say much – not that Cato let a silence linger for too long, mind you. When something needed to be said, something bothering one or the other, or perhaps when a good rebuke or scold was needed, it was said and they both moved on, leaving it in the past. Her favourite moments with him were not spent discussing the goings-on of the world, but in silence. They could walk an entire day without a word and be content. She loved sitting at an inn with him, listening to the conversations of others, the only communication between the two some raised eyebrows and knowing smiles.

And, annoying as he was, she had to smile whenever he stopped to pick flowers for potions, or point to a hawk taking flight, or when he'd halt their hiking to watch the mammoths make their slow journey across the wild, wind-swept plains.

There was just… something about him that she liked. Something that made her enjoy being near him. Maybe it was because he chose to stay, after being arrested and nearly executed by his own kind, and detested ever after by hers. Or that he took on the world with such zest and easiness despite everything that was thrown his way. Maybe it was the big things, and the little things too.

Whatever it was, it was enough to start changing the way she did things and thought about the world. He had shown her that not everyone would disappoint, and not everyone was bad. It was so easy being around him, she thought, and she hardly noticed the changes in herself. She smiled more, and laughed more, and her eyes were open to the beauty of the world. She knew the constellations, now. She often helped him pick flowers. She thought the mammoths stately and wise, instead of the senseless brutes she once painted them as. And she indulged in simple pleasures, like fresh furs on a soft, clean bed. She owed him so much for that.

Someone had told her once, long ago, that sometimes people come into your life and it seems they were meant to be there, and that they will affect you in some profound way. She'd laughed at that, of course, but that was before she'd met the Dragonborn. He was destined for great things, and he was the hero in everyone's lives. But they didn't know him like she did.

And she was okay with that.

She smiled, thinking back on things they'd done, and the reasons why he was her friend. The trouble they'd gotten into. Her thoughts were interrupted by her stomach growling, and she remembered she'd promised to have food for when Cato got back. So, with a final tired sigh, she heaved herself up off the bed and crept down the creaky wooden stairs, aware that it was late and the other patrons were likely asleep.

She was right, mostly. In the dim firelight of the common area she could make out two shadowy figures in a corner and an old man sitting at the bar. It was mostly silent there, except for Talen-Jei's broom scraping across the wooden floors and the fire crackling in the hearth.

Keerava offered to make Lydia a hot meal, but the kitchen fire was low and it would take too long, so she decided to buy some fresh bread and cheese. It wasn't her first choice, and she would have much rather eaten some meat or soup, but she was too hungry to care. And as much as she disliked the Black-Briars, she bought a bottle of their ale. If they couldn't eat what they wanted, perhaps the drink would make up for it. She thanked the Argonian and collected the food, creeping past the shadowy patrons and up the squeaky stairs.

She knocked on their bedroom door just to make sure. She didn't want to walk in on Cato getting dressed.

"Yeah?" he answered through the door.

"It's me. I've got food."

"Hold on a second. I'm _completely_ indecent for such decent company. I wouldn't want to emotionally scar you." She could hear him moving in the room, and a moment later he opened the door.

Her eyes widened when she saw him, and the first thing she noticed was that he'd shaved his short scruff so his face was bare.

"You shaved," she said blankly. Stupidly. He raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, I did." He put a hand to his face and felt where his skin was now smooth. "Figured I should. Was starting to feel like a wild mountain-man." She didn't answer him, and he smiled. _Leered,_ more like. "What, you don't like it?"

No, she most definitely _did_. He looked so much younger without facial hair. And so much nicer.

"No, I do. I mean, well, you don't look like a bandit anymore." His smile widened.

He normally had a bit of hair on his face, but it was short and it didn't really suit him. Imperials couldn't pull off beards as well as Nords. Whenever he got the chance he'd usually shaved a bit off, but never this much. Never all of it.

She liked it.

He didn't answer her, but he stepped aside to allow her into the room. He had on the clean clothes she'd given him.

"And your skin. I can actually _see_ it. It's not the shade of dirt and blood after all, I see." She set the plate of food down on the little bedside table and he shut the door, laughing. "You clean up well, my Thane."

"Yes, well, one hardly has time for hygiene while fixing all of Skyrim's problems. You know how it is."

"I do," she smiled. "No one gives enough credit to the Dragonborn, great Hero of Skyrim, brave Thane Cato – ah. _Hm."_

"What?"

"It just occurred to me I don't know your last name."

Cato smirked, crossing his arms as he leant against the doorframe. "Lydia. We've been partners in crime for, what, like five years now?"

"Not quite three months, but close."

"Right. And you _still_ don't know my last name?" He tutted like an old lady, shaking his head. "Lydia Battleborn, I am simply ashamed of you."

"Right."

It _was_ sort of embarrassing. A lot of Nords earned their names. Simply didn't have last ones. It had honestly never crossed her mind before now that there might be more to him than simply _Cato._

"It's Cato Vitellas. Cato Aurelius Iovianus Donatue Vitellas, in full."

Lydia blinked. "Wow."

"Yes, quite a mouthful. Imagine a sprite young me learning to spell my name once upon a time."

She smiled at that. "Yes, well, I'll just stick to Thane Cato Vitellas if you don't mind."

"Not at all." He nodded to the food on the nightstand. "I say we eat. Leave all that nomenclature tripe in Cyrodiil."

He sat down on the bed beside her, watching Lydia as she sliced the bread with the knife Keerava gave her. Better her than him. He'd nearly taken off his own hand the last time he tried to cut himself some food. How he ever survived before her was a mystery only the gods knew.

She handed him a slice of bread and a chunk of cheese. "Keerava offered to make me something hot, but I didn't want to wait, so I just got this. Sorry."

He shoved the food into his mouth rather ungracefully. "I don't even care. I'm starving," he muffled out.

She smiled, and they ate their food and ale in silence, listening to the fire and being happy they were inside and warm and together. His arm kept brushing against hers, his fiery skin almost burning against her own, but he didn't say anything or move it, so she didn't either.

When Lydia was nearly full she stole a careful glance at Cato's face. She couldn't believe how fine he looked when he cleaned up. Trimmed and washed, he no longer looked like a dusty, tired traveller. He looked like a shrewd Imperial merchant, or scholar, or lawman. Nothing like a hero, really. And definitely not like Dragonborn. He looked smart, proper, like he should be poring over documents at a desk, not shoving his face full of food in a dinky Skyrim inn.

He caught her staring at him again, but this time she didn't look away.

She'd always liked his eyes. They were not a cold blue like most others, just a simple brown. But they were bright and warm and she liked the way they glinted in the firelight and how the skin around them crinkled when he laughed. How they narrowed when he was thinking. Her eyes wandered from his, down past his nose, slightly bent from being broken once or twice before, over his mouth bent in the tiniest of smiles, across the yellowing faded bruise splashed across his cheek and jaw, marring his otherwise striking features. She winced a little, remembering the fight with the fat Nord back in Windhelm, and the stares and jeers and hate.

"You still have a bruise there, you know" she smiled sadly, reaching out to trace along the discoloured skin of his jaw. He was too warm and his freshly shaved cheek felt a little strange under her fingertips. But still, it felt… _nice._ "Does it still hurt?"

He smiled, his eyes softening. "Your concern is endearing, Lydia, but yes, I'm fine. Hurts a bit, but I've had worse." Then his eyes flashed from hers to the hand on his face and back up again, hesitant, sparkling with mirth.

"Oh," she breathed, pulling her hand away from him, her face burning up. "I'm – I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I didn't – "

He caught her hand mid-air, his fiery hand darting out so quickly she hadn't even seen it. "It's okay, Lydia," he laughed, the sound reverberating so deep in his chest she could almost feel it. "You can touch me, you know. I won't bite."

"You don't fool me, Cato," she said, attempting to pull herself from his grasp. "You're mostly dragon."

He chuckled low, vice-like grip on her hand surprising her. She didn't know he had that much strength. "No. I'm mostly _man."_ The pitch of his voice had sunk sharply, the sound almost husky, and it sent a shock of electricity up her spine and put the hair on her arms and the back of her neck on end.

She froze.

Oh. _Oh._

Was he…?

No. He wasn't. He _couldn't_ be. He knew the rules.

He must be joking. That's all he ever did anyway.

But the hand on her hand, the fiery look in his eye… This close to him, she could feel the heat coming from his body, the unnatural dragon-fire coursing through his veins, could even smell the soap he'd used and the ale on his breath. Her every sense was buzzing and alive and filled with _him_ , and she felt dizzy and constricted. It was near intoxicating.

 _But…_ Even if he _wasn't_ joking, someone like _him…_ Dragonborn, Thane, Companion, Blade, a hero, a smart man from the warm southlands, near-drowning with coin and influence and power, could never want someone like… _her._ A nobody from nowhere. Nothing to offer the world, not even her looks.

Someone like _him_ … an outlaw, an outcast, an outsider, an _Imperial_ – that last one alone made the lifetime of ingrained bigotry rear its ugly head inside her and swiftly, involuntarily reject this… advance. Or whatever it was.

She'd either read him wrong or he was toying with her. Both of those possibilities made her heart sink, made her a little angry. At him, but mostly at herself.

She frowned, her face and ears positively burning now, sitting there like an utter fool, mind utterly blank except for that pinprick of heat that was his hand on hers, so hot it might have been made of dragon-flame.

Dragons.

"What happened today, Cato? With the dragon, I mean?" she croaked awkwardly, clearing her throat.

He let her hand go, and she wasn't quite sure whether she was relieved or disappointed when the spark left his eyes. But her hand was cold, now, and she almost wished he'd put it back. Almost.

"The dragon? I… I don't really know, Lyds." She remained silent, waiting until he was ready, watching his face as a hundred different emotions flickered across it, try as he might to cover them all up: yearning, hurt, humiliation, fear. It was all there. She could not help but feel a little bad at putting them there. "I'm not sure what happened. _How_ it happened. He spoke to me, though. Yolyuvonmaar."

"Yolyou- _what?"_

"Yolyuvonmaar," he repeated. "Fire-Gold-Terror. That was his name."

"Oh."

She _knew_ it. She knew Cato had spoke with the beast earlier. She didn't know what they had said, and she didn't know Cato could even understand. But he did. "What did he say?" She tried to keep the interest out of her voice, to no avail.

He moved his hands into his lap unconsciously, tilting his head to stare into the hearthfire. "Not a lot, really. He just told me his name. And he said he was sorry."

Lydia's eyes narrowed. "Sorry? Sorry for what?"

"I don't know." He stood up from the bed and walked over to the fireplace, placing a hand on the mantle above and leaning against it. His eyes were firmly locked on the fire.

His back was facing her, but she could tell by his posture, by the way his legs were placed and the angle of his shoulders, that something was off. She didn't say anything.

"I think…" he started, hesitant, unsure whether to continue or not. "I think Alduin is making the dragons fight. I think he's forcing them."

Lydia blinked. "Forcing them?"

"I think so. Yolyuvonmaar said he was sorry. I don't think he wanted to fight us."

She didn't know what to say. She opened her mouth dumbly, shut it again. Honestly, she was quite skeptical of this whole situation. A dragon? _Not_ wanting to burn and kill? "How could a dragon be forced to fight, Cato?"

"I _don't know,_ " he bit, irritation or frustration in his voice, she couldn't tell. "He did, though. But he was sorry."

A stiff silence lingered in the air, heavy, uncomfortable.

"Are you sad you killed him?" she dared to ask.

He sighed and lowered his head. "No. I mean, maybe. He did try to kill us, though. It's not like I had a choice."

"No, you _didn't._ You _had_ to, Cato. Don't feel bad."

He laughed dryly. "It's funny though, isn't it?" He turned his head to gaze back at her. "I'm the _Dragonborn._ The prophesised dragon-slayer. Hero of Skyrim!" He snorted. "Right. Some goddamned hero. Here I am foolishly worrying over a stupid dragon." He turned around again, leaning against the fireplace, staring within. "I don't know."

She stood up from the bed and walked over to stand beside him. "You don't have to know. But it's not stupid if it means something to you."

He looked up from the flames and into her face again. His eyes weren't soft or playful anymore. They were hard and severe, and they darted from side to side as if searching for an answer in her gaze.

"I just… I'm a little worried, I guess. I know I have to kill them, but I don't really want to. They're beautiful creatures. They are _so_ intelligent, Lydia. So clever. It's such a shame."

Her heart ached to see such sorrow in his usually shining eyes. Such seriousness, too.

This hurt him. And it hurt her to see him like this.

She put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, letting him know she was there. "I know. But you can't let them go. They're killing people, Cato. You're doing the right thing."

"Am I? What if they all don't want to fight? What do I do?"

She smiled warmly. "You do what you were _meant_ to do, Dragonborn."

He smiled back.

She jerked her head to the side. "C'mon. Let's get some sleep. I'm tired."

"Yeah. Good idea."

"And Cato?"

"Yeah?"

"You're sleeping in the bed tonight, or I'm going to poison your next meal."

"Alright, alright. If you insist."

* * *

"What does it feel like?"

"Hm?" he mumbled groggily, right on the verge of sleep.

"Absorbing a dragon soul. What's it like?"

He inhaled sharply and turned onto his side to look down at her from the bed. She could hardly make out his face in the darkness, but she could tell his eyes were barely open.

He let out his breath. "I don't know. Hot."

She snorted and took her eyes off the ceiling to look at him. She shifted her position on the ground to get more comfortable, pulling the furs closer. "Hot? Really? Thanks."

"Well, what do you want? You woke me up." His voice was thick with sleep and more than a little irritation.

"No I didn't. We were just talking a minute ago."

He sighed, obviously too tired to argue. "I don't know, Lydia. It's hot. It hurts. I don't like it."

She was quiet for a moment, contemplating something.

"Alright," she started. He turned over again on his back, thinking the conversation was over.

"But can you feel the dragons inside you? Right now, I mean? Or do you ever feel them?"

He groaned. He was obviously not getting out of this one anytime soon. "No. I can't feel them. Not now. I do whenever I kill one, though."

She was silent again, thinking.

"It's like, you know when you're about to fall asleep, you're almost there, and your whole body all of a sudden feels like it's falling? Like you're falling off a cliff or something? It's sort of like that. The whole world lurches and spins and it feels like I'm falling. Then the other dragons inside me, it's almost like they get angry and want to get out. It feels like they're breathing fire inside, and it hurts. And the dragon I just killed doesn't want to go with them. And it gets harder every time."

He let her consider that for a moment. "There. That good enough?"

She answered after another moment's contemplation. "So, it's like falling, and it's hot. And it hurts," she probed slowly.

"Mhmm."

"I still don't get it."

He groaned again. "You don't need to. You're not Dragonborn. Go to sleep."

She heard him turn over on his side to face the wall, and she smiled to herself.

"You _sure_ you can't explain it better or someth-?" She was cut off as a pillow was thrown onto her face from above. She took it off.

"Hey, that wasn't nice." There was the slightest trace of amusement in her voice.

"I said _go to sleep."_

"That's fine. I needed another pillow anyways."

"Gods help me."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello again! Here is chapter 5! For some reason I forgot to post this chapter to AO3 when I wrote it like, 10 months ago. Oops. So here's chapter 5, and I'll upload the brand new chapter 6 right away.**

**So I lied last time. I said from now on the chapters would be radically different, but they're not. This one has a lot of similarities to an original chapter, perhaps chapter 7 or 8. Anyway.**

**This was originally a story idea from a reviewer and friend SilentPony. Go check out his stories, if you have the chance. There's a couple of great Mass Effect stories he's written, and a particularly steamy Kaidan/Ashley story. Hehe. Shameless promotion.**

**This is based around the quest Silenced Tongues, which you may or may not remember from the game.**

**Enjoy, and drop a review if you have the chance! It really means a lot.**

* * *

_"FUS!"_

The ghost bellowed at Cato, the Shout so ancient and endless in the crushing dark one could almost feel it, and it caught him off guard, sending him flying off his feet and careening into the rock wall. Even from across the tomb Lydia could hear the soft thud and scrape of his leather armour, the stiff  _whoosh_  of air forced from his body as the impact winded him.

"Shi – shit –  _shit –"_  he wheezed, clutching at his chest, at the wall behind him, desperately struggling to find purchase against the damp rock. Trying to breathe, and stand up, and hold his black sword aloft, and not look as if he was about to piss his pants at the towering, ironclad wraithlike Nord warrior fuming across the flagstone with its dual-wielded axe swinging madly and its enchanted sword pointed straight at the Imperial's heart. "Fuck – I can't – can't –  _Lydia!"_

Lydia shook off an absolutely splitting headache and the bitter bile burning her throat, a wispy sort of daze fluttering round her skull airily. The world tilted, and then straightened, fuzzed out, then gained a sharp clarity. She could not quite remember what had happened. It was there, right on the threshold of memory, like a dream almost…

The ancient ghost, the sword and axe… the treasure… some Shouting… Cato Shouting…

Cato.

"I… I'm coming," she croaked, shaking her head vigorously once again. The stone floor was cold and smooth against her cheek, and bits of gravel clung to her face and she could taste them, sharp and dusty, on her dry tongue. She gripped her greatsword with sweaty, trembling hands and heaved her armoured bulk off the stone, nearly falling flat on her face with a screech and a searing lance of white-hot pain up her left leg.

She remembered, now, and it all came back in a blinding flash of recognition and panic so violent and hot it could very well compete with the throbbing in her thigh.

She had been favouring her left leg for some time after the spectre had brought down its sword hard across her armoured knees, sending her bowling headfirst into the stone.

Right.

_Ouch._

She wiped the blood from the raw graze on her forehead and then pulled herself up once more, staggering toward the phantom, careful of her tender leg.

If truth be told, she was wearying. Slowly at first, but it was catching up to her now. Like a mineral bog in Eastmarch being drained for farmland, or like the low tide on the shores of the northern sea, her strength was slipping, ebbing away, fading, trickling out like water. There was no denying it anymore, no hiding behind the red fury that clouded her vision during the heat of battle. Her bones ached from the monotonous grinding through motion after meticulously practiced motion. Her legs felt as if they were wading through thick mud. She could feel the dents in her armour under her knees, and on her shoulder, and a large one right on her chest, pushing the cold metal against her under-chemise, making it hard to breath and causing every step to burn a little more.

The Shouts of the ghost had been missing her more narrowly and the blows of her greatsword were not as deep. She could not even fathom how Cato must have been doing, with less armour, a smaller sword, and being the complete and utter centre of the ghost's attention and unfortunate target of its madness.

And they'd been battling this thing for what felt like  _hours._  They hadn't, of course, but it didn't matter either way. They were tired and bruised and battered all the same. And wet, because it had rained earlier. And cold, because this was Skyrim.

It was hard work trying to kill something that was already dead.

_Could it get any worse?_

_"Cato,"_  she grunted, and his wild eyes darted up to her from where he cowered on the stone.

The great phantom turned and hissed, cold air blowing from between its rotted teeth, out its nose holes. Dried flesh and decayed armour and creaking bones all looking just like the draugr they so often cut down, except for the pale blue-white of ice magic – a thin, wisp-like magic that lingered around the creature, casting a pallid glow against the rock walls, across the tomb where its earthly body still lay, over the carved throne on the dais where a single sliver of moonlight bathed the seat in an otherworldly light.

_"YOL!"_

Cato's dragon-fire engulfed the ghost from behind, a wild, blazing blossom that utterly consumed the phantom and seared away every scrap of bluish light that clung to the ancient stone. A wild howl baked within the roar of the fire as it tore up into the vaulted ceiling, consuming dust and ancient magic, making Lydia shield her eyes from its intensity.

_"Lydia!"_  Cato rasped behind the blaze.  _"Lydia, now!"_

Lydia hoisted her greatsword into the air with the very last vestige of her wavering strength, ready to bring it down upon the creature, when, like nightmare reincarnate, its wispy bluish head burned into her vision, a dark spot bobbing in the blazing fire, sunken eyes cold and dead and hollow with the long passage of time and maybe even before the thing died. She faltered –  _a deadly mistake,_  her father would have scolded – and she could not begrudge him this one.

The ancient ghost snarled hollowly and kicked her square in the stomach with all the force of its ancestors. It happened so swiftly that she hadn't realised she was across the tomb until she noticed that the flaming ghost looked  _much_  smaller  _very_ quickly.

The gods have a dark sense of humour.

_Yes, Lydia_  they would have said.  _Things can get much, much worse._

And then… pain.

She found herself in a pathetic crumpled heap of dirt and blood and bent armour, a mass of mewling and pitiful  _pain._

It was the most agonizing thing she ever had the cataclysmic misfortune to experience. It felt as if her insides had twisted into liquid. Like they'd been set on fire. Like they'd been torn out, chewed up by a dragon, and spit back in with no great amount of care. She coughed once, twice, and both times blood gurgled up and splattered on her armour, cloudy red on shiny iron. The world lurched again, a fuzzy swirling mess of shapes and colours, and she could not be certain which way was up and which was down. Through the unbearable pain that was her entire existence, she had the uncomfortable presumption that she would  _not_ die at the end of a blade, or in the fires of a dragon, or even in the path of an errant arrow. No. Lydia Battleborn would die of a stomach-ache.

_How unfortunate._

She thought she heard Cato call out to her, shout her name maybe, or something to get her moving again, but it seemed so distant. Tinny, almost, like his voice was echoing through a wide canyon at night.

She shook her head, nearly vomiting at the split of pain shot that shot through it, but she couldn't see, now. Just varying shades of black and grey and dark, dark blue. She blinked to rid the tears from her eyes. Was she crying?

No. Lydia  _never_  cried.

She blinked again with more fervour and she could finally,  _finally_ see. The world swam, though, and she could scarcely comprehend what was going on around her. Little speckles and pinpricks of light and colour, going in and out, like the night sky. Her skull pounded with the ferocity of a thousand-strong herd of the toughest Skyrim chargers.

It was dark as death in the tomb, but through the flickering fire that still clung to the spectre she could make out the blob of brown that was her Thane. He was on his feet again, thrusting his black sword at the blob of blue that was the ghost, and there was more fire, now, coming from his hands, not as bright nor as hot as the dragon-fire but more constant, in looping whimsical streams. The air around Cato shimmered as he pulled the magic from it, and from the stones underfoot, and even from the ghost itself, still shrieking in agony as the fire devoured its ethereal mummified flesh. Lydia could feel the hair on her arms stand on end from the pulsating static of it.

Only a single thought managed to pierce through the reddening haze of her agony:  _I must get up and help him._

She struggled to turn herself over, but her body protested with a vicious lance of searing, grinding pain through her midriff.

Something was broken. Something wasn't right.

Adrenaline is stronger than pain, though. That was something Cato had told her. Somehow, undoubtedly with the will of the Gods, or perhaps merely their amusement, she managed to hoist her aching, broken body up off the stone. And, somehow, she succeeded in convincing her leaden arms to heave up her Skyforge greatsword one last time and bring it down upon the ghost, right in the spot between the shoulder and the neck.

It screamed. A deathly, hollow scream that would haunt Lydia's dreams for years to come.

The spirit twisted round to face her, sunken, pitted eyes boring into her own, teeth gnashing and snarling in the mouth atop the head hanging at such an odd angle from the body.

And then she saw the tip of a familiar black sword through the chest of the ghost, and the hollow eyes, for the second time in a thousand years, flickered and went out. Like a candle in the wind. The pale blue translucent body shimmered for a moment in the air, fragile as splintering ice on the water, and then, without a sound, it evaporated into the dark like a mist, leaving Cato sinking his ebony blade into nothing but the dank stale air of the tomb.

And it was gone.

Lydia fell to her knees, body too heavy and burdensome for her spirit to carry. Her greatsword slipped from her fingers and it rung out loud and long in the silence on the cold flagstone beneath her.

"Lydia?" Cato choked out somewhere above her, his voice too far away again. "Are you alright?"

Now that the danger was gone, and her Thane was safe, her body drained away all the adrenaline and decided to remind her of her recent injuries.

She turned from him, some last shred of decency still there, and, clutching at her stomach, heaved and threw up onto the stone.

If she thought her insides were burning before, they were simply  _boiling_  over now.

When she was done, she spit out the foul taste in her mouth and sat down against the wall, holding her stomach pitifully. And had she not been a wretched mess of agony, she might have been a bit embarrassed.

"That – that  _really_  sucked."

"You alright?" Cato coughed. He kneeled in front of her, a bit painfully, and tilted her head up to look at him. His teeth were stained pink from his blood, from the Shouts that made his throat so raw. And his eyes were tired, weary, but the mischievous spark was not quite gone.

"Yeah," she sighed, breath rattling inside her chest like a bird in a cage. "I'm fine."

_"Really?"_

No point in lying.

"Eugh. _No_. Feels like I got kicked in the stomach by a dragon."

He smiled a little. "Not quite. A ghost, but still."

"Still hurts like a bastard."

He chuckled quietly and she couldn't help but smile back. "I bet it does. Here." He handed her a potion from seemingly nowhere, but she couldn't care less. It hurt too much to think.

"Thank you."

"Yeah." He watched her drink from the glass in a few long swigs and set it aside roughly, ringing off the stone. "Does it hurt anywhere else? Inside, I mean?" he wheezed painfully, then spat a wad of bloody saliva onto the flagstone. "Fuck. I'm sorry," he whispered, wiping his mouth. "Those Shouts always tear my throat to shreds."

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah. I banged my head pretty hard back there."

"You did. That's going to bruise a bit."

She wriggled on the stone, tentatively testing her body. A sharp spasm of white-hot pain rippled through her midriff. "And –  _ah!"_  she hissed, not daring to move another inch. "And I think something's broken, Cato. A rib maybe. Right here."

"Okay, hold on a moment."

He unclasped Lydia's dented chestplate with his nimble fingers, bloodied and bruised from the long battle, and pried it gingerly from her body. His warm hands snaked up under her chemise and she gasped at how sweltering they were. He poked her side a few times, testing, pausing at Lydia's angry hiss, and with the tiniest furrow of his brows, pulled the magic out from around him once again, channeling it through his fingers and into her body.

Magic had always fascinated Lydia. She could never say it in front of her father, of course, or anyone down in the barracks really. There was just something so… primitive about it, and yet so advanced. Simply pulling the energies from out of thin air –  _literally_  – and from the objects and places around you.

And the way Cato could do it… it was simply enthralling. The sharp orange of the Healing Hands spell glowed faintly through her shirt, and she could feel and see the energies glimmering around her, swirling, sparkling, dancing lazily this way and that around Cato's hand and her own body. It seemed so natural to him, so easy for him to do. She could never dream in a million years to be half as decent as him.

Something inside her popped and ground into something else, and she squeaked at the pain, and then, just as swiftly as the ghost gave her that terrible stomach-ache, the agony was gone.

"Better?" he smiled.

She smiled back up at him. He had a bruise on his neck and some blood near his ear, but otherwise he looked to be fine. "Yeah."

"Good," he sighed, and all the tension fell off his tired shoulders. He removed his hands from her skin, rough and burning as they were, and collapsed against the cold stone beside her.

Both of them rested there, in the near-dark and total silence. It was not eerie anymore, didn't have that pressing cold and dampness like it had when they first wandered in. Lydia vaguely wondered if it was because all the draugr were finished and that ghost was dead.

Or gone. You can't really kill a ghost, she supposed.

There were grains of sand from the dusty tomb and the still-sharp tang of vomit in her mouth, so Lydia spit again. Wiped her mouth. Leaned her tired, tired head against Cato's shoulder, the leather smooth and cool against her cheek, his burning skin hot against her arm, even through his shirt. The smell of him – of worn leather and polishing grease and something else she could only describe as distinctly  _Cato_  filled her nose and reminded her of Breezehome, of someplace warm and safe, far from the cold of the tomb.

What she wouldn't give to be there now. Or anywhere, really, as long as it wasn't here.

Cato shifted beside her and sighed deep and long. "Lydia."

"Hm."

"You know, I've been thinking –"

"Oh no. That's never a good thing."

"Ouch, you wound me so. How  _ever_ shall I go on?"

"You can start by  _going on."_

She felt him smirk above her. "Right. You get that one. Anywho, I've been thinking. One of these days something's going to come along and kill us. For good, I mean."

The vibrations of his voice felt good against her aching head, low and soft and familiar. "Yeah," she smiled. "Can't go this long without something going wrong, I guess."

"I'm actually quite astonished it hasn't happened already."

"And I as well. You  _are_  quite the dullard, my Thane. If I may say so."

_"Har har._  You make me chuckle, you jester."

Lydia smirked tiredly.

"Seriously, though. How have we  _not_ been eaten by a dragon? Or stepped on by a giant?"

"Or eviscerated by a ghost?"

"Exactly!"

"I really don't know."

He sighed again, shifting beneath her. "You know, Lyds, I never really believed in destiny. Or prophecy, or fate, or whatever you want to call it. I always thought it was hogwash. Just something unsuccessful people use to blame their misfortunes on.  _Damn stars weren't lined in my favour,_ you know, things like that. But  _this_ …" he shook his head slowly. "I don't know. It makes you think. It can't be chance, or coincidence. And, yes, I will admit I  _am_  pretty spectacular with a blade –"

"How modest."

"Thank you. But  _dragons?"_  He whistled, the sound clear and high in the cold and the dark. "Really. Either I have one huge fucking horseshoe up my ass or I  _really am_  destined for this. The gods  _must_ have a plan for me, being Dragonborn and all. They wouldn't have chosen me if I was going to slip and break my neck on some ice."

Lydia thought about that a moment. She supposed the man was right. If he was destined to stop the dragons, stop Alduin, to save the world…

"If they even care, of course," he continued. "I don't know. It would be my shit luck for all this to be some sort of colossal misunderstanding. It's probably a cruel joke, now that I think of it. Stendarr bet Dibella she couldn't pick the sorriest loser on all of Nirn and make some sort of hero out of him. Or Sheogorath was bored one night."

"That  _would_  make a lot of sense."

"I mean,  _am_  I made for this? For saving the world? Does that make me a hero? What kind of hero is a villain to the people he's trying to save?"

"Are you having some sort of identity crisis here?"

"No, Lyds, I'm just – I don't know," he sighed again. "I guess I'm just happy we haven't come close to dying. That's all I'm saying."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right." She thought for a moment, staring at the ghost's carved throne, tilted a little for her resting head. "Except for that time in the Dwemer ruins."

"Oh, yeah."

"And that time you almost got eaten by a sabre tooth."

"Yeah."

"And all those dragon fights. And when we were chased by that bear."

"Mhm."

"And when that bandit hit you with his axe. Remember that?"

" _Yes…_ "

"Not to mention that time you got tangled up with the Brotherhood."

"Right…"

"And the Thieves Guild."

"Yes, Lydia, I –"

"And that time you fell in the sea and almost froze to death?"

" _Alright_ , I get it."

"I pulled you out, you know."

He sighed again. Long, weary, right to the very core of his being. "I know." He turned his head to look down at her, resting on his aching shoulder, and a reluctant smile spread across his tired face. "Thanks."

And she knew he meant it.

For that, and for everything.

"Hey," she said into the gloom, and she placed a hand on Cato's arm. She could feel his heat even through his armour. "You _are_  a hero, Cato. You were meant for this. Don't ever think otherwise."

"Thanks, Lyds."

And he knew she meant it.

He sighed again. "Well. We should probably get going, then. That ghost might decide he isn't done haunting this place yet. Would rather  _not_ like to meet him again so soon."

"Yeah. You're probably right." Lydia shifted to sit up, then winced at the cold ache her entire body was comprised of. "Ow. No. I think I'll just stay here. Forever."

He chuckled a little. "Come on Lydia. We've got to get you out of here before you melt into the floor."

She peered up at him under heavy lids. "You're going to carry me?"

"Ha! No. Do I  _look_  like a horse?"

"Hm," she huffed. "Chivalry is  _so_ dead."

"Only because there are no ladies left to be chivalrous to."

There were a million things Lydia could have said to him then, and a thousand ways to punch him that would really,  _really_  hurt. But she was much too exhausted. So he had to make do with a deadpan glare.

He laughed. Then, with a small groan, Cato hauled himself from the floor, stretched, and presented Lydia a tanned, bruised hand, complete with a formal, if somewhat stiff bow, and a flash of the most charming of smiles that would have made even the courtliest of Imperial nobles jealous. "My lady? May I offer you a hand?"

Lydia scowled, cuffing his hand away. "To Oblivion with your chivalry.  _My Thane."_

He laughed, his voice still sort of scratchy, and left her there with her thoughts as he picked through the draugr corpses and ancient chests.

She watched him. Closely. She watched as he fingered a few Septims in the moonbeam, pocketing them deftly. She watched as he scrutinized an old dagger, turning it this way and that, deciding it wasn't worth it and tossing it back onto the draugr's sunken chest. She watched his feet, so swift and silent in his leather boots, and she watched his hands, skillful and nimble, darting in and out of pockets and belts. The sliver of moonlight illuminated his face, and the outline of it, the curve of his broken nose, the dip before his chin, his lips forever sealed in the smallest of smug grins.

There was a certain beauty to his movements, to him. Quick and sharp, fluid. Not certain. But certainly not Nord.

She could not help but notice he had taken to shaving more frequently as of late, and she supposed he did it because she told him he looked nice like that.

Lydia supposed the man was handsome. For an Imperial, anyway. She hadn't seen it at first. She'd only seen the bony little sunburned man who walked through the doors of Dragonsreach those months ago. Maybe it was the way he moved. Or perhaps it was the things he said, the way he talked, the almost mesmerising lilt of his Cyrodiilic accent. It was probably his eyes. They were soft and brown and she sort of liked them more than anyone else's, really, even though she would never tell him that for fear of endless ridicule. They were so very different. So very  _Cato._  Whatever it was, he was like one of the twin moons above: sort of distant, with a light all their own, and a kind of gravitational pull that one simply could not resist.

And Lydia thought about this more than she should, but she began to believe Cato might think the same of her.

She would catch him, sometimes, as they ate a meal of rabbit or stew round the fire, stealing glances at her over his food. Or even just walking side by side in the wood, she might see the quickest slipping of his eyes over her way, and then back on ahead. The slightest lingering of his fingers on hers, of his smile at her jokes. He always talked a lot, and was much too friendly with nearly everyone, but  _still_ … Maybe it was only in her mind, and maybe it wasn't. Maybe she was seeing things she only  _wanted_  to see.

_Did_  she want that?

Well. It didn't matter what she wanted. She swore an oath. Pledged her life. Made a vow to put Cato's wellbeing above her own, his wants and needs before hers.

_But if he wanted_ her…

No. Ridiculous. He could have anything and anyone he wanted.  _He was the Dragonborn._

Jordis the Sword-Maiden was beautiful and proud. Jarl Elisif had nearly begged Cato to take the position of Thane of Solitude, believing he might moderate rising tensions with the Legion and Stormcloaks, be the face of the Empire in Skyrim. Ysolda was young and hardworking and had a lot in common with him, and she'd soon own the Bannered Mare. Cato's friend Ria was strong and brave and perhaps a little too obvious in the dewy-eyed looks she gave the other Imperial when he visited Jorrvaskr.

All of them young, and beautiful, and had something more to offer than a simple sword and shield. He could live in Proudspire Manor and be nobility amongst his own people, or be an owner of the most famous inn in all of Skyrim, or live out his days with the greatest warriors in all the wide lands.

But he was  _here,_  not there. And he was with  _her,_  not them.

Ever since that night in Riften, it had been on her mind. Like a burr stuck to her pant leg, always there, usually not bothering her, but something would happen – something like this, that would make her remember it was still there. She could pull the burr off if she wanted, but in truth she might sort of miss it.

She didn't think the poor man knew anything about the way romance worked in Skyrim. There was no time for courtship, for love letters and midnight walks. Life was short and tough under winter's brutal thumb, and so was love. Marriage was more out of necessity than anything – it gave you a place to call home, a roof over your head, a fire at your feet, food on the table, an extra hand with the hard work of simply living.

She did not think Cato needed those things. _Wanted_  them, even. He was born with wandering feet, with drifting thoughts, with a dragon soul that could never truly be at rest. Lydia supposed she was the same; always more at home lost under the stars than under a straw roof. She knew who she was with a blade in her hand more than speaking her name to a thousand others.

She was an adventurer, a wanderer just like him. But to be a wanderer is to be alone.

And  _alone_  was something Lydia knew very well. She had chosen to be alone, to be unaided in all things. She did not need anybody's help, anybody's love. She'd never wanted it. Maybe that's why she chose to be a Housecarl, why she left her post on the Whiterun Guard. She worked better alone. It was easiest for her. She was comfortable with it.  _Liked_  it. But she was beginning to like her Thane's company even more.

And maybe that's why Cato himself was here, now, and not with anyone else. Both wanderers, both solitary, both neither needing nor wanting anything, or anyone.

Maybe, she thought, she could be alone with Cato. Maybe that would be enough.

"Like what you see?"

Lydia started, heart thrumming madly against her chest, yanking her out of her reverie, and then she scowled – at him and his stupid arrogant smile, but mostly at herself.

"What?"

His smile was one to rival the Guildmaster in Riften, whoever he was. "Come on, Lyds. You can't be  _that_ daft," he said, pocketing a few more coins. "You were staring at me."

"No I wasn't."

"And now you're lying."

Her scowl deepened, and her neck and cheeks began to burn from embarrassment. She hoped to all Nine Divines that it was much too dark for him to see.

"It's alright. I understand. I  _am_  quite dashing. You get used to it after a while."

"Right."

"If you ever want to see more, just ask. This goddamn country is so fucking cold but I'd take off my shirt. For you."

She frowned. "Thanks. I feel so loved."

"Hey, now, I wouldn't do that for just any old Nord, you know."

"Mhmm."

"I'm serious! You want me to show you now?"

Lydia felt her throat tighten, her heart simply thrash at the thought of that. She had never seen him shirtless before. Quite truthfully, she was curious. And she was furious at herself for thinking that.

_"No,"_  she nearly growled. Realising that, she cleared her throat and tried again. "I mean, no. I want you to show me what you found."

He smiled to himself. "Alright, alright," he mumbled, making his way back over to her. He held out a hand for her, and she took it, bones clicking and a wheezy groan escaping her lips as he hauled her from the stone.

His fingers lingered on hers, his eyes took just a moment longer than necessary to turn away. Or so she thought.

Her leg did not hurt anymore. Her headache had nearly sizzled out. Her stomach still ached tenderly, but whatever had broken inside her was not broken anymore.

She watched as he began to empty his pockets of little treasures he had found amongst the draugr and in chests and the little dark corners of the crypt, splaying them across the dusty lid of the ghost's tomb. Mostly old coins with the faces of long-dead emperors, and a few soul gems of varying colours and sizes, half a dozen glass arrows, a torn scroll with faded script, buttons, rings, small garnets and rubies…

"All things we've seen before," he said. "Fetch a good price, some of it, surely. But  _these,"_  he said with a smile, "these might be worth a small fortune."

He slid the ghost's ancient sword from his sheath and placed it on the small pile of treasures, and then he pulled out the equally prehistoric hand-axe and held it out for her to take it.

"Here, Lyds. Take a look at it. They're pretty old, but they look decent enough. Nice carvings on them, and there's some sort of ice enchantment on that one, or maybe frost. Found them over by the ghost. Nasty little weapons, too. Nearly took my head off. What do you think we could get for them?"

She took it. The weapon was surprisingly light in her hands, comfortable, but it was cold. Almost too cold. Sort of like the hollow ache one gets in their bones from standing in a winter storm too long.

And then her heart dropped like a stone in her chest, because from the chipped, roughly hewn blade patterned with dragons down to the weathered, crooked handle wrapped in ancient leather, _she recognised it._

"I – my Thane, I –"

"Lydia, it's  _Cato_ ," he said offhandedly, depositing a few more Septims on the pile. "Honestly, I thought we'd –"

A strange sort of sound escaped Lydia's lips then. Somewhere between a gasp and a little cry, but more airy, full of sharp surprise.

Cato jumped, and in a fraction of a second, darted out to grab the sword, the twin of the axe, dashing his eyes around, searching for another ghost or Draugr or some other foul thing that lurked in cold, dark tombs.

"What is it?" he breathed. "What's wrong?"

"I – here." She pushed the axe into his arms and he stepped back, startled. And maybe a bit annoyed.

"Lydia, what are you doing? What is it?"

She stood there, trembling from head to foot.

Cato looked into her face and saw fear in her eyes.  _Real_  fear. It was a look his friend did not often wear, and, if he were honest, something he admired about her. She could take on a frost troll or an entire pack of wolves herself and not even falter once. The way she ran towards a dragon, too. That was something else. Whether it was true bravery or ignorance of danger or something else, he didn't know. But it was something he'd only seen in few people, and he was glad she was with him. More than she'd probably ever know.

But there was something else there, too. A recognition of sorts, and bewilderment, to say the least. He knew that look. It haunted his dreams, sometimes. He'd seen it on the faces of every Stormcloak, every Imperial, every wailing townsfolk that day in Helgen all those months ago.

And then he understood.

"You've seen it before."

She nodded. She swallowed hard. "Yes," she croaked out. "But – but only in stories. I never thought…" she trailed off, simply incapable of putting mere words to her tumultuous thoughts.

"Tell me."

She opened her mouth dumbly, then shut it again. She swallowed. Cleared her throat. Tried again, and failed.

Where could she  _possibly_  begin? Her mind was a vicious, churning tempest of emotions and thoughts. She felt like laughing exuberantly. She wanted to cry wildly.

Instead she just stood there like a fool.

"Lydia, tell me.  _Please_."

She opened her mouth again and, to her surprise, her voice came out and it sounded strong. Confident. The exact opposite of what was going on inside her.

"These weapons. They belonged to Kvenel. Have you –" she swallowed again. "Have you heard of him?"

"No."

She figured as much.

"He was a hero in the days of old. A Tongue. Kvenel the Tongue. And their leader, later on. The legends speak of him as a great warrior that rode on the backs of dragons and fought thousands of elves. He saved Skyrim and her people more times than one could count. He had a sword and an axe that looked just like these. Okin and Eduj, they are. There was a book. It had pictures. Kvenel riding Viinturuth, fighting the elves, and he was holding –  _these._ My – my brother used to tell me his story when I was a child. It was one of my favourites."

She glanced down to the weapons her Thane was holding. "That's all it is, though, a legend. A story…"

Cato smiled, understanding breaking across his face. "Well. As a man I met on the back of a carriage once told me,  _legends don't burn down villages._  Or Shout you across the room, I guess."

"Yeah…"

Her stomach twisted violently. She felt like throwing up again.

Kvenel.  _Kvenel the Tongue._ Her childhood hero. A champion among champions, dragon-rider, elf-slayer, storm-voice, friend to Tiber Septim, to Talos himself… reduced to a wispy spectre haunting these halls for an eternity. Until they had killed him, of course.

She should have known – the ghost was Shouting, had stood taller than any man she'd ever met – the tomb – it was so elaborate, so grand, all the treasure – Kvenel –  _she had killed Kvenel the Tongue –_

Cato took a step closer to her and took hold of her arm.

"Hey. You ok?" he asked softly, something like worry burning in his eyes.

"I – no, I…"

"Lydia," he said, squeezing her arm lightly. "He was a ghost. A spirit, an apparition. He's not really here. You didn't really hurt him."

"I just… never thought…"

"Never thought you'd see them?" he smiled, glancing down at the sword in his hand with a whole new respect. "Have your whole world turned upside down by the revelation that something you once took as a story is  _real?"_

Just like Kvenel. Like the dragons. Like a hero called Dragonborn.

She looked into his eyes, bright and soft, and she knew he understood.

He squeezed her arm again, and smiled.

Sometimes Cato could be a right ass. She would be the first to tell you that. Sometimes he would lie and cheat and steal. Sometimes he was blunt and others he was cunning. But it never failed to surprise her how, no matter what he said or how he said it, he  _always_  seemed to understand. Even without her saying anything.

And, if she were honest, it was something she admired about him. She was never good with words, especially when compared to her Thane, but sometimes they weren't needed. She knew that and so did he. Whether it was his innate ability to pick things up or a true appreciation for the silent moments or something else, she didn't know. But it was something she'd only seen in few people, and she was glad she was with him. More than he'd probably ever know.

"These are powerful weapons, my Thane. Kvenel of Old once wielded them with pride. May you carry them the same into battle. Long may they serve the new Dragonborn."

She bent over as far as her aching stomach allowed and bowed to him. Her knees still hurt far too much to actually kneel on the cold stone, but it was as good as she could do.

"Open your hands."

"What-?" She straightened up, a little painfully, and eyed him suspiciously.

Cato's expression was unreadable. If anything, it frightened her a little. He was normally smiling.

"Lydia," he pressed, rolling his eyes. "Don't make me order you. Because I will."

And then she understood.

Her heart soared in her chest again and, for the  _third_  time in such a short period, she felt like throwing up.

"My Thane…" The blood roared in her ears despite the absolute silence of the tomb. It was almost deafening.

_"Open them,"_  he said sharply.

She obeyed.

He smiled again, any and all trace of irritation gone, and reached out to place the ancient, weathered axe in her trembling hands.

"Here. I want you to have it."

She stared down at the weapon. A hot uneasiness prickled across her skin.

"I – I can't." She was shaking from head to foot now. In anxiety, in exhilaration, in exhaustion, she didn't know. Maybe all three.

"Lydia, I'm giving it to you. Please take it."

"No."

"Lydia,  _take it._ "

" _No!_ " she barked at him, and surprise flickered in the moonlight across his dark face, only for instant, then it turned to irritation.

"Why not?"

"These are – I  _can't_  just – it belongs in the hands of a Dragonborn, of a Tongue. Of someone worthy. I can't – "

"Lydia," he said suddenly, very softly and very close. She almost flinched in surprise, but her body was much too exhausted for any more surprises.

Then he reached out and took a hold of her hand, closing her fingers around the handle.

"I can't think of anyone more worthy than you," he said softly. "Honestly. The Eight – or the Nine, it doesn't really matter – they would want such a weapon in the hands of a true daughter of Skyrim. Long may it serve you, Lydia."

He smiled again, a huge, beaming smile that showed that one missing tooth right near the back, and he squeezed her hand. It was rough and sweaty and grimy from their battle, but it was warm and he touched her so gently she was hardly sure he was touching her at all. She even looked down to make sure.

And he was, his warmer, darker skin contrasting against her own. The hand was becoming so familiar to her now that she could quite possibly tell you the stories behind the scars that peppered it. His hands, though marked and burned by dragon-fire and hardships all his years, were a monument to his past. A reminder of sorts. A mark of where he had been and the ruggedness of his life. A life lived wandering, a life lived alone.

A different sort of numbness spread through her at his touch. One that she'd never felt before. Not from her family, not from her friends. It was warm, a smouldering fire almost, kindling from her fingers and spreading slowly to her heart.

It was the touch of someone who cares.

Her cheeks burned fiery red against her pale Nordic skin and she couldn't find the right words to say. So she didn't say anything. She simply smiled back.

Maybe words weren't needed. Perhaps the rudimentary nature of words could never quite express what was happening in her heart at that moment in time.

Cato's fingers lingered on hers a moment too long, and he smiled a cheeky sort of smile. Then he let her go. Shouldered his pack. Sheathed his new sword, the twin to Lydia's axe. Picked up her own pack and held it out to her, smiling.

"C'mon," he said with a smile to rival the sun. "What do you say we go find something to kill us? Go on one last great adventure?"

She smiled back. There was nothing more in all of Skyrim she'd rather do.

So she took her pack, sheathed her new weapon, and followed him out of the dark and on to another adventure.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hey everybody! I have risen from the dead! Haha, no, life just got in the way, as it does. My sincere apologies, friends.**

**Anyways, this chapter is sort of a weird mix of a couple of original Oblivious chapters, all pulled apart and mashed up. Not much action in this one, and it's honestly not my favourite thing I've ever written, but the next chapter is pretty damned good in my not-so-humble opinion, which I ABSOLUTELY PROMISE will arrive within a week or so. I've already got it written, I just need to clean it up a bit.**

**Anyways, hope you're all still with me, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

The sky that day was grey and heavy, as it always seemed to be in the mountains, and it was heavy with angry, stalwart clouds rolling in sluggishly from the east, their dim silver outlines clutching at the crags and foothills around them in a sort of chilly mist, and at the pale sun itself, it seemed, hauling it up, up, away from the world below, until it almost felt a cold day of night in which the Dragonborn and his Housecarl walked.

And there was rain. Not a soft, drizzling sort of spray one might catch on their cheeks near the edge of the sea, but neither was it a swift and violent downpour you might find once in a very long while near where the trees ended and the long southern deserts began. It was a middle sort of rain, light but lasting, serious yet allowing. The kind of rain you would find in Cyrodiil, Cato thought, in the towering woodlands away from both the sea and the sand, sounding like white noise everywhere and all at once, silent but not empty.

Lydia knew it wasn't often Cato was homesick anymore, but the familiar rain made him smile.

"So. You know what I learned today?"

"By the  _Eight,_  Lyds!" Cato laughed, the sound warm and infectious, making her smile like it always did. "You sound like  _such_  an eager little child, you know.  _Ma! Da! Guess what I learned at school today?!_ "

She sent a lukewarm glare his way, his laugh simply unable to wipe the smile entirely from her face. " _Har har har_. Do you want to know or not?"

"Of course I do." But he squinted up at the heavens as a particularly mad rumble of thunder growled its way across the grey sky – and sent an exceptionally heavy sheet of cold rain upon them.  _"Ah! Shit!"_  he nearly squealed, and Lydia laughed as he dragged her off the well-worn mountain path and under the thick needles of an aged pine tree so fast it would have made a jackrabbit's head spin.

"By the Nine and the Eight and the Tribunal and those weird trees the Argonians worship," he scowled, tossing down his travelling pack and shaking the chilled water from his coat. "If the dragons or the elves or the cold doesn't get me then this fucking rain will. Look at it! It's coming in sideways!  _Sideways,_  Lydia. What in  _Oblivion_  is that about?"

"It's just the mountain weather," she shrugged. "It's always cold and rainy this high."

Cato glowered as he leaned against the tree trunk to remove his leather boot. "Yeah, well, it can fuck off, is all I'm saying. Whose bright idea was this anyway? To go scrambling up the side of a mountain?"

"Yours."

"Mine?"

"Mhm."

He tossed his soggy boot away and made to take off the other one. "Really."

_"That's right, you whiny little Provincial prick,"_  the dog said, trotting under the pine tree as well.  _"This is aaaaall your fault."_

Cato scowled. "Shut up, Barbas, I swear to gods, I'll skin you and make a hat out of you, I'm not joking."

_"Right, sure. Go ahead and try to skin the immortal dog of a Daedric Prince, you stupid fuck."_

Cato swung his boot up over his head as he made to lob it at the dog, but Lydia stopped him mid-throw.

"Cato!  _Stop!_  You  _do not_  want to anger a Daedric Prince again!"

Barbas sat back on the needle-covered ground, tail thumping in great amusement.  _"Ha!_ Again? _What did you do, call Meridia fat? Tell Dagon he's one ugly sonofabitch?"_

"Barbas –"

_"I wouldn't blame you – Dagon_ is _one ugly sonofabitch. He –"_

"Barbas!"

_"What?"_

Lydia frowned. "Maybe you should… let us talk. Alone. Just for a moment."

The magic wolfhound squinted at her, then at Cato, boot still in hand, then back at Lydia, the water dripping from his shaggy brown fur.

_"Fine, yeah, sure, whatever. But only because you asked, and I like you. Not him."_

"Thank you, Barbas."

_"He's a sticky-fingered little Imperial shit and I hate him."_

Cato raised the boot even higher. "That's it –  _get out! Now!"_

If dogs could smile and laugh, then Lydia was sure as the sky was blue that Barbas grinned like an imp on skooma and laughed like one too, chuckling in his hollow Daedric voice out from under the pine tree and back into the storm to do – well, whatever possessed immortal dogs did in their spare time. Lydia wasn't too sure.

Cato scowled again. "By all that is holy, I hate that fucking mutt."

Lydia sighed, taking the boot from his hand. "He's really not that bad, you know."

"Not that –? Lydia, are we talking about the same Daedric bag of fleas here? Cause I only see one, and his name is Barbas. Stupid Fucking Barbas."

"Well, he won't be with us for much longer. I'd say we're only a day or so away from Rimerock Burrow now."

"Yeah, and then we have to take the stupid axe all the way  _back_  to Clavicus Vile's shrine. In Falkreath.  _Falkreath."_

Lydia smiled. "I'm sure you'll live."

"I really don't think I will, Lyds. Honestly. That insolent fucking cur will drive me to madness before then, I swear it. I'll be Jarl of the Shivering Isles, just you watch."

He slumped down against the tree trunk, bootless, soaking wet, tired, cold, and hungry. Lydia sighed again, leaning down against the tree beside him.

"We can't stay for long," she said. "Night will fall soon."

"I know. Just until this rain lets up, maybe."

Lydia squinted out at the cold grey sideways rain simply battering the mountain path beyond the relative safety and dryness of the pine needles.

She was glad she was here. Well, not  _here,_  exactly, beneath some twisted old pine deep into the mountains, cowering from the rain and catering to the whims of a Daedric Prince and his immortal dog. But here, somewhat dry, at least, and with Cato, her friend.

_Friend._

Lydia never thought she'd say the words, and she doubted she'd ever get used to them.

_This Imperial was her friend._

Strange times indeed, but stranger things had happened in Skyrim. Dragons, Tongues, civil wars, elves. Dragonborns.

"So, Lyds," Cato said, shifting a little beside her. "What was it you were saying earlier? You learned something? Or something? I don't know, that stupid dog pissed me off so much."

"Oh, so you're going to listen to me now?" she smirked.

"Yeah, of course. I already said that, didn't I?"

"No more throwing boots at dogs?"

"Nah. Not right now…"

"No more schoolgirl jokes?"

"No."

"Are you sure? You'll hurt my feelings, you know."

Cato rolled his eyes. "What do you want from me, a poem?"

She smiled a little. "Maybe."

The Imperial cleared his throat. "Fine then.

_Lydia, Lydia, Housecarl the Brave,_

_Hurry the fuck up or I'll send you to your grave._

_Personally."_

She smiled at that. "Beautiful," she said. "Outstanding."

"Yes, Bard material, I'd say."

"I don't know why they ever turned you away."

"Well, for one, I stole Viarmo's lute."

Lydia blinked. "Viarmo? The headmaster?"

"The exact one."

She shook her head slowly. "Right. And?"

"And honestly, I'm just too good for them."

"Of course you are."

"I could be singing in the White-Gold tower for the Emperor."

"What are you doing killing dragons for, then?" she chuckled.

Cato smirked at her and leaned closer in a conspiratorial sort of way. "I need new material, see. A bard is only as good as his songs and stories, and his stories are only as good as the life he's lived."

His breath was warm as it ghosted across her face, cold and damp as it was, and she could smell the cool rain, the wet leather on his skin.

"And  _your_  life," he continued, "is about to end by my sword if you don't tell me what the fuck you learned today."

Lydia laughed, her spirits warm despite the rain and the grey around her.

Her Thane always seemed to be doing that. Making things a little less…  _grey._

"Okay, alright. We wouldn't want a murder on your hands."

"Well, not right now, no. I just washed up. Who  _knows_  the next time we stumble across an inn or something in this godsforsaken barren wasteland? Could be days. There's no way I'm jumping into the river, either. I'll freeze my assets off. I don't do blood. But I  _would_ make an exception for that disrespectful shaggy brute that we have the grand misfortune of tagging alongside us for the time being."

"Right," she chuckled. "Right. Anyway. You know that book I was reading? This morning, by the fire, before we packed up camp?"

"Oh, you mean the book  _you_  were reading while  _I_  was packing up camp? Sorry Lyds, I was too busy being useful to notice."

_"Har har,_  you make me chuckle."

"I do what I can. So, what was it?"

She hesitated a moment. "It was a history book," she said. "On Cyrodiil."

She wasn't quite sure what his reaction would be to that. Would he laugh, thinking she was joking? Or making fun? Or would he grow angry, guessing she'd been mocking his people, researching them like you would an animal?

She suddenly began to regret her poor choice of words. And reading material.

His eyes widened. "A history book? Really? Lydia, I'm impressed."

She let out an audible sigh.  _Impressed, then._

"Impressed?"

"Of course! I thought you of all people might prefer the staunchy battle strategy books written by fat bearded generals, or great war epics of the past. Or myths and legends, maybe. You know, something a little less utterly  _mind-numbing_ than  _The Overly-Long and Way Too Complicated Long-Ass History of the Most Boring Country in Existence._  Why on Nirn were you reading  _that?"_

"I don't know, really," she smiled a little, blinking away a droplet of rain that found its way down her forehead. "It  _was_  quite boring."

"History books tend to be.  _Especially_  ones on Cyrodiil. Really, Lyds. Old Emperors and boring laws and quiet secessions aren't  _nearly_  as interesting as dragon slayers and extinct Dwarven civilisations."

"Not nearly, no."

"You Nords are so much more glorious and epic than we've ever been."

She smirked at that, pulling her hood round her a little tighter. "Yeah. We don't really do the whole  _thinking and talking_  thing very well."

He laughed again, the sound muffled a little by the browning needles around them. "No! You just prefer to Shout each other to pieces whenever you get pissed off. And then you become some great hero and plunge your people into a civil war."

She ignored the jab at Ulfric, though she could not say she disagreed with him. It was… a touchy subject with her. "Anyways –" she pressed.

"Hold on. I thought Nords couldn't read." She raised her eyebrows at him. "Well, I know  _you_ can, of course. But most  _can't,_  can they? I mean, there aren't universities like there are in Cyrodiil here. Just the College of Magi, but most Nords  _aren't_  mages, right? And the schools for children – well, to be blunt, they're not that great. So there's really nowhere for you to learn, and – oh." He smirked at her, at the way she was half-frowning in thinly-veiled amusement and ire. "Hm. I'm talking too much again, aren't I?"

"I –"

"I am, too.  _Shit._ Thought I told you to stop me when I ramble like this."

"You –"

"Seriously, Lydia. You really should stop me."

Lydia bit her lip to keep the laugh in her throat, her damned heart fluttering softly at the cheeky grin just barely concealed beneath his air of false indifference.

Lydia did not joke around with others often, finding her humour to that of other Nords as vastly different and gaping as a wide, endless abyss. But Cato was dry. Sarcastic. Sometimes dark. Quick and clever. Though she would never say it to him, he was quite possibly the most amusing person she'd ever been around. Everything he said, and did, seemed to be steeped in at least a little humour and wit. Really, she was not quite even sure their entire working relationship was not, in fact, actually one big running gag between himself and the Jarl and she wouldn't put it past those Greybeards to be in on it too. Wouldn't really surprise her much.

He let a rare silence linger in the air, allowed the rain to fall on around them as he thought, while he let the joke drift around in the cold air between them. It gave Lydia the chance to sneak a glance at his thoughtful face. She always liked the look he had when he was thinking. Distant yet so focused. His head wandering a little too high in the clouds but always with one foot on the ground. His eyebrows creased just a little in the middle, his lips a small, hard concentrated frown. She could almost see…  _something_ there, in his eyes. Deep thought. Wheels turning. Steam billowing. It fascinated her, in some small way.

After a moment or two, his soft eyes turned hard and slid sideways to her. "So where'd you learn to read?"

Ah.  _Well._

She frowned, turned from him, stared at the half-soggy ground, at the brown needles poking through the pebbles and tufts of high mountain grass by her feet. "Farengar taught me."

"Oh. I guess that makes sense."

"Yeah."

She could not see his face now, but she knew he was eyeing her guardedly. She could feel the prickle of his gaze on her skin. "So. What did your father say about that?"

She didn't answer him right away. Truthfully, she considered not answering him at all. But she did. She always did. Even when little things, stupid things like this left a bad taste in her mouth and darkened her mood a little, because this was Cato. She trusted him. "Not much," she shrugged it off. "He always thought it was a waste of time. Thought I'd be better off using my sword instead of my head. He still doesn't like the man for it."

"Your father doesn't like much, though," Cato joked lightly, a weak attempt to lighten the mood.  _"Especially_  me."

She chuckled, heart not quite in it.

"I think he's still convinced I'll march into the city with a legion of Imperials any day now. Break down the doors of Dragonsreach and enslave the entire populace. Sacrifice little Nord children and eat all your babies."

"Yeah."

"You know, Lyds, I think I actually might. Just to mess with him."

"Hm."

She could almost feel him frown beside her, deep in thought once again.

The rain pattered on all around them, thudding drearily on the thin needles above and plinking sharply into the puddles. Splatting flatly on the broad leaves of stunted bushes, chinking off the rocks, trickling down from the boulders and high crags into miniscule little pools clouded thick with wet grass. Every once in a while a chill wind twisted down the mountain path and under their little shelter, squirming round their tatty travelling cloaks, making them shiver, making them wish they were back in Breezehome. Strange weather indeed for winter in Skyrim, but everything was changing.

"Lydia? Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Cato."

"Is there a reason your father hates me so much? I mean, well, you know, apart from being a heathen Imperial and all," he smiled warmly, gently, only a little mirth behind his eyes.

Then he did something that Lydia would never forget, even if she happened to spend a thousand more lifetimes on Nirn, if she had to endure all of time and watch the sun burn itself out and swallow this world in the end – something that no one, it seemed, had ever done for her before, something that altered, that shifted what was between them into something a little  _more._

It was this:

"You don't have to answer that if you don't want to, Lydia. I understand," he said, and then he brushed the tips of his fingers against her arm, setting them there, and never before had such a simple gesture so assuredly let her know that the person behind it was there, unmoving,  _always._

It was such a simple little thing, really, and nothing that different from all his touches yet, but something about it made her heart swell like it hadn't before. Made a soft, glowing sort of warmth kindle and catch deep in her cold, Nordic heart. Made her feel like maybe, perhaps, she needn't be  _entirely_  alone on this journey. That it might be okay to  _not_  be okay, sometimes – and to know that someone else cared enough to be there when that happened.

She'd... never really had that before. Never really wanted it.

But she could let Cato be there, she supposed. After all, no one knew him quite like she did – and no one her, quite like him.

Lydia sighed. "It's not just you. It's all Imperials, really."

"Oh,  _good,"_  he chuckled. "I was beginning to think he suspected me of witchcraft. That I put you under a spell or something. Dragged you to the dark side."

Lydia smiled weakly. "Yes, lucky you." She hesitated a moment, not sure whether she wanted to continue. But Cato deserved an explanation, no matter how much it hurt – both her, in her heart, and him, for the hostility.

Her father was… many things. He was a strong, proud Nord – once. He was a hard man. A stern parent. Balgruuf's brother, his personal Thane and advisor. He was a Stormcloak. A fallen, wounded warrior from the days of the Great War. He was… a sensitive issue, above all. A delicate topic. Like Ulfric Stormcloak. Like the banning of Talos worship. Like the White-Gold Concordat. Like the Emperor and the Great War and the Legion and Cyrodiil. Like Cato himself, really.

But she supposed the story behind her father really began with the story of her brother.

"My brother…" she began weakly, the sound feeble and barely audible over the dappling rain. She cleared her throat, trying again. "My brother was older than me, by a few years, at least. He was a soldier, quite some time ago now. A Stormcloak in Ulfric's rebellion after the Great War but before –  _ah._  Well, you know."

Before he Shouted the High King to shreds, before he twisted friends into foes and pit brother against brother. Before the Civil War shattered the Empire into a million ever-weakening pieces. But she didn't need to say it.

"He  _was?"_

"He… died."

Those words…  _dead...died…gone…_  they still sounded so foreign, so wrong on her tongue, even after all this time. An old stab of hurt, buried deep beneath the years, even deeper than the dust settled over the footprints left behind, tugged sharp against her heart, ached coldly, wrenched longingly. She had not spoken of him in such a long time, it seemed.

"Oh."

And what else could he say? She did not blame him for that, couldn't feel even a little disappointed. She'd always been a rock, a hard pillar of detached apathy. Never cracking, never wavering, never showing even the slightest glimpse of character. But she was slipping. Falling down the hill. There was nothing else to be done, really, except go down the hill with as much grace as a Nord could offer.

"A night raid on his company, we were told. There was a letter. Said they'd been on the trail of some Legion soldiers for a few days, tracking them into the mountains north of Whiterun. But I guess they knew about them. They set a trap, led them into a pass and…" Lydia shut her eyes, shook her head against the wicked memories. "Hm. Got them at night. No one made it out. They never even found his body."

Lydia remembered the look on the young courier's face when he handed the letter stamped with the bear-head standard of the Stormcloaks to her father. Remembered how the boy's hand shook, how he looked about ready to cry. Could see, even now, the old scar on his arm, the small braids in his fresh beard. Remembered his blue eyes as they darted over to hers, and then the letter, and then her father's sullen face. She could remember all of that, all about the young courier, and yet she could not remember what the letter said anymore. Strange how some things worked.

"My father was never the best of fathers, always cold and hard, but after that… I'm not sure what changed. But he did. He grew… colder. Harder. Bitter, almost. He always blamed the Empire for everything – for their cowardice, for turning against Skyrim, for betraying them, for the way his wound makes it hard to walk, now – a wound he got fighting for them all those years ago. And then… with my brother… he just – I don't know," she shrugged. "He's not the same man he used to be. He blames others for the way he is. He blames you."

"Well. I guess I can see why."

"But you  _shouldn't,_ Cato. It's not your fault. Nothing's your fault – not the Emperor, the Legion, the elves, the War, the dragons –  _nothing._  I wish so badly he could see it. That Skyrim could see it. There's just – so much  _anger_  in him, in all the Nords. So much hate. It's not fair to you."

Cato did not answer for a long moment. Lydia wiped the damp mist from her face, unsure whether some of the droplets were tears or not. She didn't want to know, really.

"Your brother. What was his name?"

She swallowed, throat tight. "Henrik."

_Henrik._  She had not said his name aloud in such a long count of years. It often hurt too much.

But it hurt a little less this time.

"I'm sorry, Lydia."

She blinked. "For what? It's not like  _you_  had anything to do with his death."

"But my  _people_  did."

Lydia frowned hard, an almost angry glower on her face. " _Your_  people.  _My_  people. What's the difference?" she shrugged coldly.  _"Both_ our people are fighting and I don't think either knows why. Everybody's lost someone in this damned war, Cato. That's how it is. That's how war works. My father just… doesn't know how to deal with it."

"What about your mother?"

"My  _mother?"_  she snorted. "I don't know what she'd think. I could only hope she'd be half as understanding as father." She paused a moment. Swallowed. "I… never met my mother, see. She died giving birth to me. My father raised us. You know," she added grimly, "I don't think he ever quite forgave me for that one."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry, Lydia. For what it's worth. But it wasn't your fault. You know that."

She shrugged again, half-heartedly this time. "It was a long time ago. But I don't miss her. I never knew her."

"I know. But I'm still sorry."

There was a moment of quiet between them, nothing but the sound of muffled rain and wind and their breathing beside each other. But it was not an uncomfortable quiet. It was… peaceful, almost. No judgement or ire or hate toward the two races where both had been born and raised in it.

"You know," he said softly, after another long moment. "I never really knew my mother either. She died when I was still very young."

"Oh."

And, like him, she wasn't quite sure what to say. Cato talked a lot – a little too much for his own good, maybe – but even so he rarely shed light on his past. Where he came from. It just… never came up.

"I don't even know how she died, or why. I can't recall her name – it was either Paula or Portia, or Petronia, maybe. I don't even remember her face anymore." He smiled wide, then, so wide it might have seemed he was discussing the weather instead of his dead mother. "Seems to me you and I have much more in common, eh?" he chuckled, bumping Lydia's shoulder with his own. "Both motherless underdogs wandering this fucked-up world together, no idea what we're doing but having to slay a dragon-god after it all."

"Yeah," she said, a little less cold now. "Yeah. I guess we are."

Lydia didn't like pity. It meant something was wrong with you, that you were weak in some way. Your enemy could spot it, pry you open, strike you down. It was something her father had told her. But telling Cato these things… telling someone a little of her story… about her brother, her mother, her father – it made it all hurt a little less. A lot less than keeping it to herself for all these years.

It felt good. Talking. Having someone to listen.

There was a saying her father had always drilled into her head, time and again, from the moment she could walk, all throughout her life, during training and sparring and even in the quiet moments in between.

_I am not a man. I am a weapon in human form. Just unsheath me and point me at my enemy._

Lydia was a weapon. A sword and shield. An object. She had pledged her life in service to another, like her father before her, and his father, and his father before. And she knew that. She could not be weak. She could not crack. There was no room in her life for anything else.

_And yet…_

And yet Lydia did not feel weak, talking from the heart to Cato. She did not feel herself cracking when she shared her story or her insight or her smile. His pity did not pry her open and leave her gasping on the floor – it left her heart warm, her soul content. She did not feel feeble around him, around this man with a dragon soul, the one destined across space and time to slay the World-Eater himself. She felt strong with him at her side, and now more than ever, she felt like maybe he did too.

"Hey… Lydia, listen," he began, and the tips of his fingers moved from her arm to brush against the back of her hand, rough and warm, and she blinked, wrenched from her reverie. His fingers lingered maddeningly close to the skin above her wrist, almost but not quite touching.

"I'm listening," she breathed.

"Okay. I – you're smart, Lydia," he said bluntly, making her blink. "Smarter than a lot of people. Smarter than you give yourself credit for. I know you haven't had it easy, but I –  _ugh._  I don't know," he shrugged, rubbing at his nose a little awkwardly now. "I just wanted you to know that. You're not your father, you know. You don't  _have_  to think what he thinks, or do what he does. You're not where you were born, or what happened to your brother, or the colour of your skin or your eyes. You're  _you._  You're what you do in your life, and who you help, and the choices you make."

Lydia blinked – and then, a moment later, smiled through the rain.

"Wow. Those are some wise words, my Thane."

"Hey, I'd take credit if I could, but I can't. Even  _I_ have honour, you know. Somewhere deep."

"Very deep."

"Bottom of the ocean deep, yes. No," he said. "Someone told me that, once, when I needed to hear it. A long time ago."

"Well. They were very smart, whoever they were."

"Yeah," he smiled. "He was."

Lydia's heart did a strange thing then – it sort of thrashed madly against her ribs like a trapped dragon, and at the same time it swelled so much she was nearly certain it would burst through her chest.

No one… had ever told her something that. No one had ever made her feel special or different, in a good way. Like she was worth more than the sword in her sheath, the armour on her breast. Worth a little more than her oath, than her title of  _Housecarl._  No one had really seemed to care about  _Lydia._

"Oh  _gods,_  that all probably sounded so syrupy, now that I think of it," he smiled a little sheepishly, the red slowly creeping up his neck and ears now. "I apologise. Do  _not_  go off and tell anybody about that now. Seriously. I'll know. I'll find out. And I'll come looking for you."

He laughed again, deep and low, and his breath smelled of ale and salted meat and something else that she could only describe as something distinctly  _Cato._  He was so close she could even smell the soap he always used on his skin and see every little hair of the stubble lining his jaw – the jaw he still shaved surely because she told him she liked it. And she could feel the heat from his body, the unnatural dragon-fire coursing through his veins, and it engulfed her fully. Her every sense was buzzing and alive and filled with  _him_ , and she felt dizzy and constricted. It was near intoxicating.

And something else happened then – something strange, something new and terrifying and utterly exhilarating was churning and roiling madly inside her. It stretched throughout her entire body, from the very tips of her fingers to the uttermost core of her very being, and it had no bound nor length nor depth – it was simply and entirely absolute, blooming outward and onward like a wildflower, maybe, or a spectacular burst of dragon-flame in the night. She felt as if she was standing in the centre of that blazing dragon fire, burning and melting inside, searing away layers of her flesh until it burned right to her very soul, baring it naked for all to see – and yet she had never felt safer in her entire life. Her heart seemed at peace, but still it danced and dithered in the dappled sunlight, revelling in the exceptional sensation that a hole she hadn't even known was there had  _at last_  been filled.

She was frozen and hot and uneasy and bold and lost and found and a million other things all at once, and nothing at the exact same time, and she was in the exact centre of the entire universe and she was nowhere, and when she looked into Cato's face – into his young, dark,  _different_ face – she knew something had shifted irrevocably in her heart and she rather thought that maybe she was beginning to fall in love with him.

And why? Here? Now?  _Him?_

But he was – Imperial and foreign and distant and charismatic and so sure of everything and brave and smart and a liar and a thief and Dragonborn and a hero and  _she was absolutely none of those things._

What would her father say? What would the Jarl think of her? What would every proud Nord, everyone she'd ever met, every once-friendly face in the street have to say to her now? How would Skyrim herself look upon her?

_Why?_

She felt like a fish flopping about on the sandy shore, gasping for air, dying to know the answers – and yet in her heart she knew.

It didn't need to make sense. Maybe it never would. But it was there, now, this little kernel of affection, and perhaps it would be all her life. Cato would always have a little piece of her for himself.

Damn him. Damn him and his sticky fingers – stealing things like words and hearts.

He gave her a strange sort of look, his face twisted into the slightest of frowns that she found rather attractive, not because he looked good – which he  _did,_  by the way – but because that frown was bent at an angle on his face only  _he_  could master, and his soft eyes were sparkling half with mirth and half with genuine concern, and simply because he was Cato. "Lydia? Are you feeling alright?"

"I – what?"

"I said, are you feeling alright? You look like you've seen a ghost or something."

_Almost, but perhaps a little more terrifying._

"No – I'm fine."

He pondered her a moment longer, searching for something in her eyes, and for a sudden heartbeat she was terrified he might find out what she had been thinking.

Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he never would, or maybe he already thought the same of her. Whatever it was, his smile spread a little, and he reached out to close the tiny distance between then, touching her wrist softly with the tips of his fingers, and then deftly slipping his hardened, russet hand into her much paler one.

And like his touches, he'd held her hand before – pulling her up, or across, or away from some danger – but this one was different. There was no urgency behind it, but nothing casual, either. Like the brush of his finger before, this meant something a little  _more._ It meant that he was alive, and here beside her, and would be – in those dangerous times, of course, but even in these ones, where the demons living inside hurt more than the ones out in the wilderness beyond.

Lydia could face them. All of them. As long as Cato was there beside her.

She leaned her tired head against his shoulder, cheeks pressed flat to his wet leather armour, her heart burning and thundering madly just beneath the skin, and she smiled. "I – thank you, Cato. For everything."

"Hey," he said. "Anything for you."

And she really, truly believed him.

He smirked his cheeky little smirk, then shifted his gaze and squinted out down the muddy road before them.

"Come. Let's be on our way. I doubt the little bastard of a mutt and the Daedric Prince of Power and Trickery will be none too happy with our lack of punctuality."

"Vile doesn't seem the forgiving type, no."

He chuckled a little, pulling his soggy leather boots back onto his feet, leaving Lydia's hand cold and hollow.

Then he stood up, offering her a helping hand again, and she took it, hoisting herself up. She held on a moment longer than necessary, and his rough thumb made a circle or two on the back of her hand, as if to reiterate and solidify everything they'd talked about, everything he said. And it did.

He let go, taking the first step out from beneath the pine tree and back onto their journey. She followed him, like she always would.

"So. Lyds."

"Hm?"

"About this book you were reading."

"Ah. Right."

"What did you learn about dear old Cyrodiil?"

She smiled to herself. "You know, I can't quite remember."

"Hm. Well, I'm sure it was boring as fuck."

"Yeah," she smiled. "Yeah, I'm sure it was."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hello again! I have returned, and almost exactly when I promised!**

**Alas, here's chapter 7. I think I really like this one. It's funny and sad and all sorts of things, I think. By the way, this is _not_  the chapter I mention last time - that is next, I believe.**

**So, if you're an original Oblivious reader, you might remember that I absolutely _never_  revealed anything about Cato's past. It wasn't because I was being coy or enigmatic - it was because I honestly had not formulated an ounce of his life before Skyrim. But, guess what - I now have! So, here you go. Here's a bit of his history. I always wondered what Cyrodiil was like after the Oblivion crisis, and I think it wouldn't be such a great place to hang, honestly. I tried to look into that a bit here - just a bit. Hope you like it.**

**Enjoy, and leave a review! They mean a lot. Thanks again!**

* * *

"Do you miss Cyrodiil?"

The question caught him off guard, to be sure, and she really hadn't even meant to ask it – it just sort of…  _came out._  Maybe it was the hollow hush of the still forest surrounding them or her twisting, empty stomach; maybe the cold ache of her legs and low into her lungs after such a long walk through the deep blanket of snow. Or perhaps it was the ghosts, those far-off spectres still lingering in her mind – the feelings of her father, the memories of her brother, the longing for home –  _whatever_ home – that made her think of Cato's, and the one he left behind.

She sat there with him, in the last watery rays of the day, watching as the heavy pale sun hung lower and lower in the sky, dragging long ragged shadows across the thick powdered snow. Soon it would sink below the jagged tops of the snow-capped mountains far to the distant west. The frail sun bathed everything in a washed-out pastel coldness – except for the ice clinging to the end of the pine needles and scraggy, twisted branches. Through these, the light was concentrated, refracted, and then scattered, piercing through brilliantly so as to set everything aglow with a dazzling sort of light, mirroring the growing velvet of stars above almost perfectly. It was quiet here, and muted, and it made Lydia feel not lonely, but alone. As if she and Cato were granted this tiny corner of the world all to themselves – and as if they were the first and only people ever to find it.

He was silent for a long while and she began to think he hadn't even heard her, and perhaps he'd fallen asleep. He was tired too, and still new to this country, and unused to the cold and the snow and the vast emptiness between places. Although he would never admit it, and Lydia would never mention it, Skyrim was taking its toll on the man.

But he proved his consciousness, pulling his much-too-large fur coat closer round his shivering body. He poked the dying fire with a crooked stick and it was difficult to isolate the burning little embers from the waxing tapestry of winking stars above as they twisted and crumbled to nothing.

"Are you cold, my Thane?" she asked. "There's an extra fur in the tent I can get for you."

It was hers. And it would be cold tonight. But she didn't mind. Not for him.

He peered over to her, eyes sliding almost comically slow like they were frozen themselves.  _"Cato,_  Lyds, fuck. I'm always cold. I don't think I'll ever be warm again. But I'd be a fool to pass the opportunity to keep my toes  _on_  my body. So, yes, please."

She fetched him one, a large black bear fur she'd made from a kill a few years back. She stepped round the little fire, boots crunching in the dry snow.

"Hm," Cato mused, shivering as she draped the fur round his shoulders carefully. "Isn't the man supposed to do this for the woman?"

"I've long accepted that I am much more manly than  _you,_  my Thane. Perhaps it's time you did too."

"You know, I'm actually okay with that," he smiled. "I can see myself as the domestic husband, selling sweetrolls or some shit in the market, wrangling the children while you go off on adventures and slay dragons. Not a bad idea."

Lydia smiled as she sat down beside him, her cheeks burning a little at what he said. "Yes, well, I guess we'll never know. I don't think the Dragonborn is meant to be the stay-at-home sort."

"Yeah, it's a shame, that. I still think the gods fucked-up with me though. They probably had my name labelled under  _Dumb-Asses to be Eviscerated by the Thalmor_ but got it switched up with  _Dragonborn Hero of Nordic Prophecy_  at their meeting. I'm convinced."

"A simple error, no doubt."

"Exactly."

Lydia watched him in the dying light – saw his massive fur coat, and his raggedy old fur-lined boots, and the deerskin gloves he always wore in the winter, and then at his face – his dark, tired, strikingly  _handsome_  face – at least to her – and he looked like an idiot, truly he did, with his clothes all mismatched and mis-sized and quite ill-suited to Skyrim's frigid winters and yet she felt nothing but warmth and affection and a sort of… protective vigilance for the man, despite being sworn to guard him for all his days. It was something…more. She  _had_  to protect him, yes, but not only that – she  _wanted_  to. And she knew he did too.

She sighed. This man, this –  _Imperial,_  had truly wormed his way into her heart, somehow, and left behind some sort of gooey soft…  _mush_  or something.

He would be the death of her yet.

"Do I miss Cyrodiil, though?" he answered at last, and Lydia had almost quite forgotten she'd asked him. "Hm. Honestly? Sometimes, I guess. I don't think about it much anymore. Only when I see an Imperial soldier or we visit Solitude."

"Yeah. Or when you're whining about the cold and the snow."

"Yeah," he smirked, poking at the fire again. "That too."

"What was it like?" she asked. "Where you lived, I mean?"

"What was it like?"

"Yeah."

"Hm," he pondered. "What was it like."

He stifled a weary yawn, and she smiled – he had killed dragons and elves and vampires in his time, and stopped the blades and arrows of assassins, yet he could look so young, so helpless and small, too. Like a child, almost, in the near-innocence of fatigue.

"You don't have to tell me, Cato," she said, stifling a yawn of her own. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day and you probably just want to rest –"

"It's fine, Lyds, really," he chuckled, waving her off. "I'll live. But you know, you ought to be more selfish."

"Selfish?"

"Mhm. You're always thinking about other people – not that that's a _bad_  thing, mind you, but fuck. Live a little. Be more aggressive. Get what you want."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Alright, then. I want a Nord Housecarl and Dragonborn, one who's strong and brave and knows the old ways, not some twiggy little snowback who can't hold a sword for shit."

A wry smile split the Imperial's dark face. "Ouch, Lyds, by Azura, that hurt. Be gentle with me now, okay? My pride is as tall as I am. And fragile. Like a butterfly."

"If your pride was  _twice_  as tall as you were, Cato Vitellas, it'd still be half as much as a horker's."

He put a hand to his heart dramatically, in a way only he could. "Ow, seriously,  _Lydia Battleborn,"_  he smirked, "I'm quite offended. You know how sensitive I am about my height."

"Well then, don't be short."

"Oh my gods, why didn't  _I_  think of that?" he laughed, his breath twisting in the cold air like the smoke of a dragon. "Well, you be the first to let me know if you ever find a potion to make me taller, alright?"

"I'm not even sure that would help," she said, darting her eyes from his ratty boots to the top of his head, the short hair poking out from his hood in an almost comical way.

"Okay, alright, I get it. You're not into short men. I can take a hint."

"No, you can't."

"But plenty of women  _are,_  mind you. I'm not even that short, Lyds – in Cyrodiil I'm quite average. Except for my dragon-slaying ability and my skill in restoration magic and… some  _other_ things," he leered, peering at her sideways. "If you know what I mean."

"No, I don't."

"Oh, I think you – ow! What the  _fuck?"_  he hissed, rubbing at the arm Lydia had swung at – not lightly, either. "What was that for?"

Lydia smirked at him, flexing her knuckles. "I'm being selfish."

"What –?"

"More aggressive. Getting what I want." She shrugged, ignoring the confused, irritated looks being hurled her way. "I want you to shut up."

He rubbed at his sore arm a moment longer, then sighed, defeated.

"Hm. Yeah, you're right. You deserve that one, Lyds." And he smiled a little, glancing up at her from under his tired eyelids, and she smiled back.

He poked at the fire once again, pushing an ashy log over and sending a dazzling rush of sparks up into the icy, star-peppered sky.

Lydia's father had told her a story, a long time ago, about the stars and where they came from. They were the spirits of men and women, brave Nord warriors who died in battle, and of children taken from this world much too soon. Pure spirits, bright ones puncturing a hole in the fabric separating this world from the next, permitting mortals below a glimpse into the bright beyond. She'd always liked the idea, had always felt close and protected by them, but now – now she wasn't so sure. Cato had told her they were suns and moons and other worlds, so far away that the light only reached here after millions of years, after a distant journey deep through the immense vastness of space and time. Really, she thought, that story was rather more beautiful.

She wondered if the stars in Cyrodiil looked the same as they did above. If the twin moons on the horizon beyond shone just as coldly in high towers of the Imperial City, and if the auroras seared across the sky in just the way they did here.

"It's just – I don't know," she began, not quite sure exactly where she was going with this. "You've never mentioned it, and I've never asked, and it's never really come up – I mean, not like you'd  _want_  to talk much about the Empire here, I understand, but I – I just want to know what it's like. What your home is like. Where you come from."

He tilted his head, a small smile playing at his lips.

"Hm. A Nord who gives a shit about Cyrodiil."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Cato –"

"I'm joking, Lyds. Seriously. What I mean is most Nords give  _too_  many shits about Cyrodiil. They all want to march south and raze it to the ground."

She shot him a sharp glare and he chuckled, hands facing outward in defeat.

"Alright, okay, by Sithis, I'll drop it. Just don't punch me again. That hurt."

"Good."

"Cyrodiil," he said, playing with the word on his tongue slowly, turning it around a little in his mouth.  _"Cyrodiil._  Cyr-o-diil.  _What was it like?_ Hm. Well, it was warm," he smiled a little, his eyes softening in memory, perhaps, of a far-off place and time. "Warm and hilly. And more trees. The  _trees,"_  he chuckled, "are what I miss most, I think. Massive beautiful ones with broad leaves that fall in autumn. Not like the pines here, with their pokey little needles that hurt your ass when you sit on them. The leaves were soft and turned red and orange and yellow at year's end, and they smelled like – like the last days of summer, like an end to something, maybe, and they fell to the earth and covered everything.  _Everything!"_  he said, smearing his other hand out in front of him across an invisible canvas, painting her the picture. "You'd see farmers out in the fields raking them up, before it got dark, and they covered the city streets, blowing around in the wind."

He chuckled again, his eyes sparkling in the starlight. "One year, the leaves were so bad the Emperor ordered the city guards and the Watch to clean them up. We hated them, of course – they weren't very nice to kids – ah, like  _me_ _._  And just to fuck with them, we brought in more from outside the walls at night – snuck them in through the old escape tunnels under the city, took us right to morning, mind you – and they were  _furious!_  Gods, I swear, you've never lived until you've seen one of the palace guards in their shiny red armour chasing kids with a rake over his head! Stupid fuckers," he laughed, his voice loud and vibrant in the coming night, and Lydia could not help but smile at the sound of it.

"I didn't live there, though," he continued, voice sobering a little. "The Imperial City, I mean. I never really stayed in one place long. Always leaving, always moving from city to city. Dirty places, they were. Full of crime and poverty and… bad things. Bad people, bad smells, bad dealings. The rich eating off silver plates and the poor starving in the gutters. Not nearly as nice as the cities elsewhere in the world." He paused, frowning a little. "They've lost their magic over the ages, I think. Maybe once they were grand, once they  _meant_ something, but now… I don't know," he shrugged. "They're just… old. Old and tired. Beaten down by time and war with the elves."

"Hm. That sounds a little like Windhelm, I think."

"Yeah. Pretty much. A crumbling old city patched together by memory and an unwillingness to let the past go."

… _Like my father, maybe,_  Lydia thought.  _And perhaps all the Nords as well._

"But…  _hm,"_  he huffed, scrubbing a hand across his face in thought. "I think my  _favourite_  place was always in the West Weald, in the forests and fields there. The grass was tall as a man and always green,  _so_  green, and the maples there were red and towered over the roads. And there were fields and fields of grapes, Lydia," he chuckled. "Vineyards far as you could see. You could walk for _three days_ _,_  I'm not kidding, and  _still_  be in the same field. Can't tell you how many times I got sick off the grapes I stole." He poked at the fire again, head tilted in thought. "The cities may be dying but the wilds were… something else. Almost like – like a realm of Oblivion, maybe. Like a place where magic grew."

"It… sounds wonderful," she smiled, abstract flashes of where he came from flickering through her mind like the fire before them. "Nothing like what we have here."

"No, not really. Well, perhaps Riften, in the summer, maybe. But even then it's not endless."

"Well. I'd love to see it one day."

"Yeah," he said, giving her a cheeky smile. "Maybe I'll take you."

Lydia's heart skipped a beat. They'd walked the length of this country a million times, it seemed, across mountains and forests, from sea to frozen sea, and yet the thought of going someplace else, someplace other than Skyrim had never crossed her mind.

Would she do it?  _Could_  she? Could she ever leave this place of snow and pines and dragons? The place she'd been born?

"Really?" she breathed. "You ever think you'll go back?"

He frowned in thought for a moment. "Well. Honestly? No. I mean – well, it's hard to say, isn't it? Probably not. I'd miss all the snow," he turned to her with a roguish sort of smirk.

"But – what will you do when this is done?" she asked, and again, this was something she'd never thought of until now. "When this is all over, I mean, and Alduin is dead, and the dragons are gone and the prophecy is filled – will you go back?"

_Will you leave me?_

He frowned again. "I don't know. There's… nothing really there for me anymore. I left it all behind and – I don't know. Maybe it should stay there."

"But – your family? What about them? Surely you have someone waiting for you."

"Not really, no."

He pondered a moment, squinting in the dazzling light scattered through the ice on the trees. It was beautiful, in a bitter, harsh, dangerous sort of way. Like a dragon.

"My mother was a serving maid in House Vitellas," he began tenderly, wrenching Lydia's attention from the lights. "I mentioned her before, I think. That she died when I was very young."

"You did."

"She was – a nobody, really. A farmer's daughter, perhaps, sent away to work in a noble's house, a last-ditch hope at a better life, maybe. I don't know," he shrugged. "House Vitellas was a great House in southern Cyrodiil, once. They had a lot of money – old money – invested in silver mining by the Golden Coast for generations, but the Vitellas's made some bad trade deals and lost a lot of wealth. They sort of plunged into the abyss that was Cyrodiil, along with everyone else," he chuckled, though Lydia did not find it much amusing.

"Anyway, it happens all the time – servants get knocked up with the rich man's kid, expecting some money or titles. Or they use the kid as blackmail, maybe, keeping the lords under their thumb. I swear, Lyds, Cyrodiil is ruled by serving maids and cooks."

Lydia blinked. "So your father –"

"Was a lord, yes. Lord Marcus Aurelius Cassius Agrippa Vitellas. Marcus for short."

"Cato, I didn't know –"

"What, that daddy was a rich man?" he smirked. "Before you have a coronary, Lyds, he was a  _poor_  rich man. Inherited all the debt his grandfather put them in. Hardly worth the air he breathed, at the end."

"Oh."

"But he was a good man, really. He knew what it was like to work hard – what it was like to have something, and get it taken away. He could have been cruel to her, but he wasn't. He let my mother stay, let her keep her job in the kitchens, and he let me stay with her. But you know, I'm not sure either of them ever loved each other. I'm sure I was simply the result of a little too much alcohol and more than a little regret."

_"Cato!"_  Lydia breathed, heart aching a little. "Don't say that!"

"Say what?"

_"…that."_

"Lydia," he chuckled. "I've always known. I was never told otherwise. I might be a mistake, sure, but I'm the most  _dashing_  mistake you've ever met."

Lydia grimaced at his brazen self-confidence.

"Anyways," he continued. "Like I said. My mother died when I was still very young. Now, Marcus's wife was a real bitch.  _Camilla._  Doesn't that sound like a bitchy name?" he smiled. "Camilla. By the Eight, she  _hated_  me. Always did. Wanted him to toss me out in the streets like old trash when my mother died. I can only imagine the hell Marcus got when he finally told her who I was, told her I was staying."

"I can imagine," Lydia smiled a little.

"She thought I was a threat to their daughters, see. They had two. Juliana and Marcia. Juliana was a bit older than me. Marcia was around my age. Good kids. We got along well enough. Played together sometimes. I don't think Camilla ever told them I was their brother. Half-brother, I guess. But Marcus never had any other sons, see. By Oblivion," he chuckled, "it's a miracle she never murdered him for that one."

"Then you – you're the –" she stammered, putting the puzzle pieces together in her mind. "The  _heir_  to that House?"

Cato gave her a sly grin. "By gods, if I knew this made the ladies swoon I'd have told it to anyone with a pair of ears. Keep it in your pants, Lyds."

Lydia's face burned scarlet, and she scowled at him.

He laughed. "I'm only joking, Lydia, lords above."

"Right," she murmured, flustered hot embarrassment creeping up her neck like a vine.

"Technically I  _was_  the heir to House Vitellas. I was his only son. He… should have been embarrassed of me, of my mother. He had every right to toss me out like his wife wanted – or drive me through with a sword, sort of like what  _you_  look keen on doing," he smiled. "But he kept me around. Taught me to read. Showed me how to hold a sword. Taught me many things, really. Gave me food and clothes and a place to sleep. He even brought in a tutor from the Imperial University to teach me. By all rights, I had a good childhood. Better than most, I think. Despite it all, I think he really tried to give me a decent life."

Cato frowned into the fire, hard, almost like he was looking for something she couldn't see.

"I… was never part of the family. Not to Camilla. To her I was… an unwelcome secret. A mark on her House. A stain she could never quite get rid of. Gods, I was such an embarrassment to her," he chuckled darkly. "The son she could never have, a boy made from the casual lust of her husband. She wanted nothing more than to sweep me under the rug and forget I ever existed. Since Marcus made it clear  _that_  wasn't happening, she did the next best thing: hid everything else from me. I wasn't allowed to talk about my mother. I never left the estate, never visited the Imperial City, never went with my father and sisters on trips to the Gold Coast or Nibean Bay when he left for trade talks. I was their son –  _his_ son – and yet at the same time I was less than that."

Lydia was… conflicted. She loved Cato – as her greatest friend, her partner, the arrow to her bow and, well, maybe as something a little  _more_  – and she wished for nothing other than to fight by his side for the rest of eternity. Truthfully, she didn't want him to return. Didn't want him to be the hero that showed up in the direst of needs only to disappear again after the story has been told. And yet… she felt the weight of his crushing loneliness for all these years, and it made her heart ache for him.

"It was made very clear to me from a young age that I wouldn't inherit anything from the Vitellas estate. But my father told me he would give me a little something, enough to go to university and purchase a house, at least, when I came of age. I'm sure I would have lived quite happily as Marcus's invisible bastard son in some middle-class townhouse in the Imperial City the rest of my days."

Lydia's heart sunk a little lower. "That… didn't happen," she said.

"No. It didn't, else I'd be  _there,_ not here. My luck isn't that grand, I'm afraid," he smiled.

"What happened?"

"Marcus died when I was thirteen. Pneumonia, if you can believe it. The man was healthy as a charger his entire life. He was a fencing champion when he was younger, even spent some time in the Imperial Legion. He was a working man, like I said. He tried to give us a decent life. Tried to pull his House out of the stagnant hole that was the Empire. Always trying to do that. Anyway," he shrugged, "Camilla sent me off to the orphanage before the man was six feet under. Never saw a cent of his money. Never said goodbye to my sisters. I never even went to his burial. To this day, I don't know where he is."

Lydia's heart ached for him, felt as if a cold shard of ice had slipped inside it. "I'm… I'm sorry, Cato."

"It's fine," he shrugged indifferently, and this almost hurt her more. "It was a long time ago."

She frowned. She knew  _a long time ago_  still felt like yesterday, sometimes, and much too often hurt like today.

"What then?"

"Well, I don't know. From then on it was pretty much downhill. Stayed there until I was too old. Sixteen is the limit in the Empire. I tried to get into the University of Cyrodiil for a while, but they wouldn't accept me. Tried to apprentice with a blacksmith and an armourer and a stablemaster, once. Nobody took me."

"Why?"

"Well, I had no money. Never got anything from Marcus, remember. I couldn't find a sponsor. I even tried to petition the state for help, but they couldn't do anything. Camilla refused to give them any information on me. I didn't even have a birth certificate or anything to prove I had noble blood. If I did, Camilla stashed it away someplace. Or burned it, more likely. And who would take the word of a skinny little  _nobody?"_  He poked at the fire absentmindedly once again. "I was nobody," he said. "No one from nowhere. Just… a shadow of what could have been."

Lydia remained silent.

"I was a street urchin for a few years after. Bounced from city to city after I overstayed my welcome. Made my way pickpocketing and selling shitty knives for some seedy crooks. Got into some trouble back then. Got in with the wrong crowd. Things got… real bad. For a little while. I… did some things I'm not too proud of. Things I had to do. And some things I didn't." He frowned into the fire, wincing, refusing to look at Lydia. "I was…  _angry,_  for a long time. At Marcus, at my mother, at Camilla. At my time in the orphanage. At the University. At Cyrodiil. At everyone. It was everyone's fault but mine. Stupid kids," he grimaced. "Think the world owes them everything for simply existing. I thought I was owed more than that. I was dealt a shit hand in life, but I played it foolishly. I could have done better than I did."

"But you  _were_  owed more than that," Lydia said, growing angry at it all. "You deserved people who loved you, people who cared for you. You didn't deserve what happened."

"I don't know. I think maybe we all get what we deserve, in the end."

Lydia agreed with him on a lot of things, but… she wasn't so sure about this one.

The people in Helgen that day – did they deserve to die? Did her brother? Her mother?

"Life sucks, Lyds," Cato shrugged. "It's hard and people are cruel and you never really get what you want from it. But, if it's any consolation, I've found you can sum it all up in three words: it goes on."

"It goes on."

_It goes on._

Well. She could at least agree with that.

"Yeah. Well. There's your little tidbit of my infinite wisdom," he smiled a little. "Don't forget it."

Lydia smiled back. "I'm sure I won't."

"Good. Because I don't want to repeat it."

Cato squinted out at the horizon, out past the hills and at the last rays of watery sunlight as they crested over the mountain-tops in the distance.

"Well. It's getting late. I suppose we should –"

The faintest twang of a bowstring. The tiniest hiss of something small slicing the air.

And then the arrow pierced his chest.

The strangest little sound escaped his lips, sort of like a half-tired whine of mild inconvenience. He blinked once, staring at the iron shaft protruding from his body for a long moment – maybe a second, maybe a lifetime, Lydia didn't know – and she stared at it too, for just as long, utter bewilderment and terror striking her frozen.

And then it started.

The world seemed to go much too fast then, the next few moments passing in a blur of magic-colours and screams and Nordic battle cries as the bandits rushed them from the trees. The icy clatter of steel upon steel rang out in the snowy wood, and the sickening squelch of steel gliding through flesh and renting armour pierced through the reddening haze of Lydia's rage. She could not remember reaching for her sword, could not recall how she got so far from the fire in such a tiny sliver of time, but it didn't matter. She'd lost sight of Cato and she couldn't be sure if he was down or got himself out or was fighting just behind her or –

No. She utterly refused to think he might be –

_Not. Alive._

"Cato!" she cried, desperate, panicked.  _"Cato!"_

But she could not panic. She mustn't be desperate.

A massive shaggy bandit with blue war paint on his ugly face sprinted from the side and she only just dodged him before sliding her greatsword in the space between his heavy cuirass and faulds. A streak of bright blood slashed across the snow, spattering it red, making the man's eyes go wide in sudden realisation. He grunted once, shuddered, and slid off her sword with a strong kick to the gut, falling into the deep snow in a twisted pile of metal and flesh, staining the virgin white a hot, angry red.

Movement after practiced movement Lydia went through, methodically and almost monotonously, letting the years of training and Nordic obstinacy posses her. Side-step, block, parry, one-two upper cut, thrust, repeat. These bandits simply could not measure up to her years and years of discipline. It was almost too easy, and it might have been enjoyable had she not been anxiously scanning the battleground – only moments before their safe little camp – for her Thane.

She impaled two more Nords, eviscerated a scrawny Argonian, and removed the head from the shoulders of a terrifying snarling Orc. She painted the white canvas of snow all the different reds of every race.

A hiss somewhere to her right revealed a Khajiit in leather armour similar to Cato's crouched behind a tree, his grey fur mottled between the green needles and sunset-sparkled snow. He shot an arrow at her with a simple hunting bow but she ducked. It pinged off the armour near her ribs and spun off into the trees.

And then another heavily-armoured Nord, just as shaggy as the first few but much more massive, took this opportunity to swing around a pine and bring his axe down with a ferociously enraged roar. She twisted just in time to block it with her greatsword and she did, a rabid clatter of iron against steel that shook her to the very bone and rattled the teeth in her skull. Lydia's greatsword was Skyforge steel and it shattered the bandit's axe like brittle candy, sending little shards of metal scattering into the snow.

She staggered, blinking from the shards, and the Nord shoved her hard, denting her armour, winding her, and sending her sprawling to the ground.

Times like this made her envy Cato's lighter armour.

Cato.

_"Cato!"_

The Nord laughed as he stood over her and picked her weapon up from the snow. "Hey there, beautiful," he grinned greasily. It sent a cold shiver up her spine. Her eyes darted from side to side, and she could hear the sounds of battle all around her, and could smell the sharp fizzle of magic-fire melting the snow, but the man's sweaty face and new Skyforge weapon had her complete attention. "Cato, eh? You don't need that fuckin' _scib_  – waste of air. He's right dead, anyway."

No.  _No._ He couldn't be –  _he was lying._

Bending down on one knee and propping himself on his weapon, he leaned over and brushed a rogue strand of hair from her face. "It's a pity I've got to kill ya, though. Ya look like a good fuck."

_"Fuck you,"_  she growled, and she spit into his face.

The Nord roared and stood up again and she kicked out with all the force her body could muster.

_"Fuck!"_  he thundered, dropping the greatsword into the snow. She'd got him right between the legs.

If she couldn't kill the bastard, then the least she could do was prevent him from spawning more ugly crooks.

He cursed to all nine divines and probably some made-up ones too, and she rolled ungracefully to the side, snatching her greatsword with frozen, fumbling fingers, struggling to stand in her heavy armour.

Heart thrashing, blood roaring in her ears, just beneath her flushed skin, she lashed round ready to face the Nord, but – he wasn't there.

She blinked once, twice, utterly and entirely confused beyond reckoning, and then she noticed him lying right near her feet, body scorched and blackened almost beyond recognition.

"What –?"

The Khajiit archer near the trees snapped another arrow to his bow, aimed it right at her heart, smiled wickedly, his sharp pointed teeth glinting in the dusk, and then collapsed with an arrow between his eyes in a cruel twist of fate.

_"Fuck!_  Lydia! You alright?"

She whipped her head around in the direction the arrow and voice had come and she smiled – simply  _beamed_  – when she saw him there, back near the fire, picking the bandits off one by one with his beautiful Orcish bow – cornered, in a last desperate stand. He paused a moment, wheezing in the effort, and let out a brilliant stream of fire from his hands, lighting up the dark, and searing the skin, melting the flesh of those unfortunate victims too stupid and close to him.

He was the arrow, the fire, and she was the shield – this was how they fought together – but he was hurt and exhausted and she needed to protect him.

_But he is alright,_  she thought.  _He is fine. He is alive._

She grinned and leapt back into the fray with renewed vigour, almost laughing as she cut her foes down and as he showered them with fire and the rainbow of arrows in the quiver on his back, as if he'd collected any ones he could find on his travels and stored them there. Which he had.

They were one, Housecarl and Thane. They moved together so perfectly, so attentively attuned to the other's movements anticipated before they were even carried out, and only because they'd fought every battle, physical and… otherwise, together thus far. She taunted, he struck. He lured, she thrust. She bashed and swung and jeered, he released arrow after arrow into their unwilling flesh. She prevented them from getting too close to him, and he stopped them from sliding a blade through her.

She glanced at him after the elf crumpled on her blade, and she froze.

There was a moment there, in between the pulling of an arrow and the launching of a new one, where he looked… sublime. Like he belonged there. He looked like a hero of old, like the legend from the stories she grew up with, and she couldn't help but be in complete and utter awe of him.

He looked, for perhaps the first time, like the Dragonborn.

The thought lanced through her like a hot blade and she faltered, causing the tiny Breton woman with a menacing horned helmet to smile as she found an opening in the warrior's guard.

She lunged forward, her rusty short sword aimed straight at Lydia's heart, and not a moment before she struck, the Housecarl saw the thirst and thrill of battle and death blaze in her wild eyes. And then, white shock, and slick realisation, and finally nothing at all as she dropped to the ground in a ball of fire not a foot from Lydia's feet with a glass arrow sticking out of her throat.

Lydia blinked, the Breton's spattered blood sliding down her eyelid and onto her cheek – a blazing trail of heat in the otherwise frigid night.

She wiped it away and the maddening roar of her blood rushing past her ears nearly deafened her as she realised –

_I almost died._

Nothing like a brush with death to make you feel alive. Or, not quite dead.

She stood there staring down at the woman's body lying in the snow until her pulse evened, until the sizzling of fire and melting ice hushed, and no more arrows snapped to.

Somewhere in the burning haze of her mind she heard Cato give an exultant whoop from his position by the fire.

"Yeah!  _Fuck_  yeah! Haha!  _Wooh!_ That's what you get for trying to jump the Dragonborn, you absolute  _assholes!"_  She heard the crunch of his boots in the snow, saw he'd removed his fur coat, baring the leather armour beneath. "Lydia, fuck, that was great!  _You_ were great!  _I_ was great! I mean, did you  _see_  me get that elf? Fucking shredded him!  _Shredded!_  And that Nord! I – I don't even know where the  _fuck_  all the pieces of him landed. Haha! And that Argonian, gods –"

"Cato," Lydia breathed shakily, crossing over to him, absolutely quivering like a leaf. "Cato, I – I don't –"

He gave her a puzzled glare. "Lyds? You feeling alright?"

No, she most definitely was  _not._

"I – the arrow – I thought you –"

_Died,_  yes, but she couldn't quite say it.

"Hm? Oh, right, yeah. I'm fine." The arrow had been removed from his chest, leaving a tiny dark hole in the armour. He saw her staring at it and smiled. "I pulled it out. It didn't go through, you know."

She stared at him, eyes alternating between his chest and his face, sooty and spattered with blood. "How -?"

"You saw his bow." He nodded quietly down to the Khajiit man, over by the pine tree. Lydia, for some inexplicable reason, needed to see him.  _Now._  She shuffled over through the snow, dropping her greatsword and tearing away her bent chestplate, constricting and heavy, and so she stood over him – over his corpse.

"Lyds, what are you doing?"

The Khajiit man –  _boy_ – couldn't have been older than sixteen or seventeen. It was a gruesome sight with the arrow between his eyes and his once-beautiful fur blackened by magic-fire. The smell alone – that of burnt hair and sizzling flesh almost made her retch, nearly forced her to look away.

Cato waded over to stand beside her, staring down at the boy's body as well.

She should have been cold – freezing – but she still burned hot from the fight, from her terror at failing the Jarl, failing her father, failing Cato – all of Skyrim, and the gods, too – because she'd almost let him die.

"What –" she began, voice faltering, and she cleared her hoarse throat, trying again. "What about his bow?" she nearly whispered.

"It… was bad," he said gently, sensing something was not quite right. "The string wasn't tightened properly. Look. He had good aim, and given a better weapon he would have punched right through my armour. Whoever gave him this bow couldn't afford a better one or didn't care if he died. It was probably both."

And then, for any number of unfathomable reasons, Lydia's heart suddenly ached for the boy. He was… much too young to die. He didn't deserve this kind of death, or that kind of life. Where were his parents? Where did he live? What had happened in his past for him to leave Elsweyr, leave the great shifting sand dunes of his home behind to take up arms for this motley crew of outlaws, so far from where he began? What was his story? Would anyone care that he died? And his eyes – now black and glossy and staring up at the stars – would never see another day. Another sunrise, another sunset, and all the moments in between.

He didn't deserve _any_ of it.

Then Cato's words echoed in her silent mind:

_I think maybe we all get what we deserve, in the end._

No. Cato was wrong.  _This_  was wrong. This… the Khajiit boy… the bodies scattered round them, round the camp that moments before had been a safe place, a sanctuary for the night – it was all  _wrong._

Their bodies littered the area and most had been blackened by Cato's magic beyond recognition. The eerie stillness that always accompanied the end of battle was punctuated only by the hissing of charred armour and snow and… nothing else. The acrid tang of magic mixed with the putrid smell of burnt flesh and coagulated blood and death-released shit, and Lydia had to cover her mouth to stop from retching. It was nothing short of a massacre.

And after they were gone, after they slept and packed up at dawn's first light, they would leave and never return and maybe no one ever would, and these people – with friends and families and stories no less worthy or heartbreaking than Cato's – would remain and would be swallowed by the earth, in time, utterly forgotten.

It was  _wrong._  They didn't deserve this.

And – and  _Cato_ – how close he had come to this fate as well. How easily it would have been for him to be turned just a fraction to the side, to let the arrow slip a hair's breadth deeper, punch into his heart – how narrowly he had evaded death. How quickly the story he'd told her – of his mother, and father, and the loveless, brutal life he'd had – would be snuffed out, extinguished like a flame, not important, never to be remembered or cared about. Gone, like it – like  _him_  – had never existed at all.

How fragile a thread life was, how easily it could be taken.

Lydia was a warrior and she had learned long ago from her mentors, from her father, not to think when she fought. She never really understood that until now.

She gasped, all the energy sucked from her body, and she turned from the Khajiit, retching painfully into the snow.

"Lydia! Lyds, you alright?" Cato asked, placing a hand on her back in a soothing way.

"I – no, Cato. I'm not."

She couldn't see his face – didn't really want to – but she knew he had some inkling of what had rampaged through her mind. He had always been good at reading her.

But he didn't say anything, and when she collapsed to her knees in the snow, utterly exhausted beyond comprehension, he sat down with her too, and held her to him, and together they watched as the last pale rays finally sank behind the mountains, and gave way to a bruising purple horizon, and at last as the black velvet of stars crawled across the canvas of the sky, the suns and distant planets winking at them from another time, another place in the vast emptiness of the universe.

There was nothing she could do. The Khajiit boy chose to be a bandit and he had attacked her Thane. He needed to die, and he had. Cato had been stronger, and therefore did not die. Not yet. It was the way things worked in Skyrim, and how they always would. You couldn't stop to pity your enemies or feel sorry for the dead. Not for long. You'd be among them if you did.

And something else Cato had said earlier burned into the quiet hush of her defeated mind:

_Life sucks. It's hard and people are cruel and you never really get what you want from it. But you can sum it all up in three words: it goes on._

Because what else was there to do?

She wiped her eyes of frozen tears – only a few of them – and stood, hauling Cato up with her.

"I'm tired," she said. "Let's go to bed."

"Right," he agreed, and together they turned their back on the boy, leaving him in the past.

* * *

**Phew. That was a lot of deep shit.**

**Hope I didn't info-dump too much of Cato on you guys. I could have stopped somewhere in the middle but I felt like he'd just... keep talking about it. So I let him.**

**Seriously, there's so much more to his story, I could write a novel. Which... I guess I'm doing.**


End file.
